Trust Me
by Ms L.E.B
Summary: Thea Holmes was sure of only three things. One: her father, Sherlock Holmes, severely underestimated their enemies. Two: John Watson, possibly their only friend, was quickly becoming an integral part of their lives. And three: happiness did not come to those who danced with the Devil. Part two of my Thea Holmes series. {Parent!Lock}
1. Part 1

**_Part One._**

When she was a small child, no older than five, Thea would have terrifying nightmares of a faceless woman claiming to be her mother. The entity would stand over her bed, a pale hand reaching out to her, as a screeching voice demanded that Thea come with her. She would wake up screaming, her hands covering her ears as her father ran into the room. The conversation was always the same.

"I saw Mummy again. She was trying to take me."

"It's just your mind's portrayal of her, Thea. Hush, sleep now."

"I can't, Papa, she's going to come for me again."

"She loved you, she would never hurt you. Not even in your dreams. Lie down, dear."

At seven years old, she clung to her father's jumper as he attempted to pry her from him, avoiding her pleading eyes. They were at his parent's cottage in the countryside, a quiet little place that had been full of sunshine and happy memories – up until now.

"Thea, I have to go, let go of me."

"I don't want to stay with Nan, I want to go with _you!_ "

But he kept shaking his head, repeating, "I've already told you no, now _let. Go._ "

" _NO!_ "

And then suddenly her grandmother was pulling her away, pulling Thea into her arms. And she screamed, as loud as her little lungs would allow, kicking and fighting as hard as she could. Her screams drowned out whatever her grandmother was saying to her father, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. She watched through blurry eyes as he walked away, carrying a suitcase and little else to his car. He climbed in, never looking back at her, and turned over the engine, driving away without saying a single goodbye.

Thea managed to fight her way from her grandmother's grasp and ran out into the dirt road, trying in vain to catch up to him, "Papa, _please!_ Don't leave me!" She fell to the dirt and pulled her knees to her chest as the dust blew up around her. She had never felt so alone.

But here she was now, eleven years later, trusting him with her life. Sherlock stood less than two metres away, his back to her as he pointed a loaded pistol at a bomb lying on the tiled floor of the pool deck. To her left, their only friend, Dr John Watson, sat with his back to a changing stall, his palms flat on the ground on either side of him. His mouth was agape, awaiting their fate with wide eyes. At his chest were three snipers' lasers, identical to the ones at hers. Sherlock was donning several of his own.

Only moments before, James Moriarty had strolled back into their lives with a threat to end them immediately and without hesitation. The trio had gotten in his way, you see, and such nonsense couldn't be tolerated in his line of work – in which he arranged an array of crimes comparable to booking a holiday.

The man in question stood at the deep end of the pool, his dark hair slicked back, hands in his pockets, and his mouth set in a grim line. His suit was immaculate and clean-cut, with freshly-shined shoes and a crisp white handkerchief in his breast pocket. But beyond all that, his eyes were what scared Thea the most. She had never seen anyone's eyes so incredibly devoid of life. If she didn't know better, she would have thought him dead inside. He was more dangerous than she could have ever imagined, insane to a degree she didn't think possible in a human being.

She kept her gaze on him, ignoring the cold feeling that swept through her bones. She'd told her father to do whatever he deemed necessary to keep Moriarty from wreaking havoc. She prayed, for once in her life, that he would be a good man and do the right thing.

And just when the tension had reached its climax, the tinny introduction to "Stayin' Alive" began echoing through the room.

Thea's brows furrowed as her father glanced back at her and John, but she shook her head slightly as she mouthed, "It's not us."

Then Moriarty closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. All eyes turned back to him.

"D'you mind if I get that?" he asked as if they were all out to dinner and it was a minor inconvenience.

Sherlock shook his head and motioned with the handgun, nonchalantly replying, "No, no, _please._ You've got the rest of your life."

James pulled his mobile out and answered casually, "Hello? …Yes, _of course_ it is. What do you want?" He mouthed a sarcastic, apologetic " _Sorry_ " to Sherlock, before turning around for a moment. Then suddenly he spun back around, his face full of fury as he roared into the phone, "SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Thea glanced at John before looking at her father, his eyes quickly finding hers as a frown pulled at his mouth.

Moriarty continued venomously, "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will ssssssskin you." He drew out the 's' of the word, hissing into the phone. And then suddenly he said quietly, "Wait." Then he placed the phone at his chest, his eyes drowning in the depths of the pool as he walked toward the bomb. Her father swiftly adjusted his grip on the pistol, but the madman stopped just short of the coat and looked thoughtfully at the floor. "Sorry." His eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's. "Wrong day to die."

"Oh," the detective answered casually, "Did you get a better offer?"

James glanced down at the phone before turning and starting to walk away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." Then he raised his free hand and snapped his fingers, causing the lasers pointed at the trio to disappear completely. He pressed the phone back to his ear and walked through the door he'd come through, saying, "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes…"

And then he was gone yet again.

Sherlock followed him some ways, his eyes scanning the balconies overhead but finding nothing of substance. He peeked through the door but turned back to John and Thea with hard eyes.

After a moment, she found herself finally able to breathe. John stood, pressing a hand lightly to her back as she doubled over, her hands on her knees.

"What happened?" he asked Sherlock, and the detective shrugged, pulling his own mobile from his trouser pocket. Still between his fingers was the memory stick he had intended to give to Moriarty. In his other hand, the gun hung limply, still cocked.

"Someone changed their mind. The question is: who?" he answered simply before pressing the mobile to his ear. "But first…" He paused, then half-smiled as the recipient answered. "I promised I'd call."

Then he held out the phone to Thea, who straightened and furrowed her brows before taking the mobile and placing it next to her ear. "Hello?"

"Thea! They found you!" a warm voice exclaimed, and her other hand pressed to her mouth as a jolt ran through her veins.

"Matthew, oh my god. I'm so sorry," she whispered, holding back tears of relief at the sound of his voice. Her father touched her shoulder lightly and motioned to the door behind them. She followed her boys as they lead the way back outside. "I should have texted you something less cryptic, I was just so _scared_ , and things happened so _fast_ – "

"It's alright, I'm just so glad you're safe," he interjected, laughing slightly. "I don't suppose you still want me to come for dinner?"

She glanced at the time on the mobile; it was quite late, but she had a feeling that she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. "I want nothing more than to see you right now. I'm not quite sure where we are exactly, but feel free to head over. Mrs Hudson will be more than willing to let you in."

"I'll be there. Stay safe, love."

"I'll try my best."

Thea hung up and handed the phone back to her father as they slipped back outside. She'd never appreciated the cool night air against her skin as much as she did in that moment, and she silently vowed to cherish each minute that she was alive – for there would be a day when James Moriarty would come for them again.

And she knew they would not be so lucky a second time.

* * *

The ride back to Baker Street was a quiet one between the three of them. They pulled up to 221B and emerged single-file onto the sidewalk, murmuring thanks and passing cash to the driver before Sherlock unlocked the front door. Thea felt a shock of relief at the sight of the building, having earlier been afraid that she'd never see it again.

She took the lead as they climbed the stairs, and when she reached their flat, she saw Matthew standing, his back to her, in their living room. He turned to her, his storming eyes catching her sapphire ones, and gave her a comforting lopsided grin. He was wearing a hunter green jumper with a beige-striped button-up underneath, dark jeans, and casual loafers, and Thea drowned at the sight of him. She immediately threw her arms around him, trying to dam the flood of tears behind her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she repeated into his neck, and he just stroked her hair, holding her close to him. He smelled of musk and vanilla rum, an intoxicating combination.

"Don't be, love. I knew you'd come back to me," he murmured, and they stayed like that until they heard Sherlock clear his throat behind Thea.

Thea broke from their embrace and ran a hand over the back of her neck, "Right, introductions, sorry. Hem, this is my father, Sherlock Holmes, and our friend and flatmate, Dr John Watson."

Matthew smiled warmly and shook their hands, "Pleasure to meet you both, really. Thea's particularly enthusiastic when she talks of you two."

Sherlock eyed the young man with a hawk's precision, but Thea could see him struggling not to immediately deduce everything about Hem. She appreciated the effort all the same.

John gave a small chortle and said to the artist, "I hope good things are being said on my behalf. Have you had a bite to eat? I know we had something planned for tonight, and well… We've been… busy, but we could order something in."

Matthew laughed nervously and ran a hand over his dark hair, "Actually, I went a bit overboard and uh…" he motioned to the kitchen and the residents of 221B glanced over to see a full spread on the table. Thea's jaw dropped as she walked forward. The table had been set for the four of them, with food piled on serving platters at the ready.

"Hem! You didn't need to do this," she exclaimed, looking back to him. He shrugged.

"It was the least I could do. You three had already dealt with enough for one night, and there were fresh groceries at the ready... I really don't mind."

John laughed slightly and raised an eyebrow as he moved toward the kitchen. "Well, I'm famished. Shall we?"

Sherlock glanced at the artist and nodded once, taking off his coat and scarf as Thea did the same. Hem took the coat from her and hung it next to her father's things, gesturing for Sherlock to go ahead of him. The detective remained stone-faced as he moved to sit at the head of the table, across from John. Thea squeezed Hem's arm as she passed him, giving him a small smile of encouragement.

They sat and immediately began digging into the steaming piles of food – Sherlock even took small portions of the offerings, if anything, to appear grateful. But his intentions were more fixated on conversation than anything.

"What do you do for a living, Mr Hemingway?" he asked inquisitively, his baritone stricter than usual. His daughter hissed, " _Papa_ " and he shared a glance with her before adding, "Out of curiosity."

Hem didn't seem fazed. "Matthew, please. I'm an art talent scout and critic, essentially, for a small Swiss publication. I do a lot of travelling around Europe, finding little-known artists and writing spotlight features for them."

"Is it lucrative work?" Sherlock pressed, and Thea gave a small kick under the table. He grimaced and returned it in full.

"Thankfully. I was fortunate to be offered the job right after I graduated uni."

John chewed in thought as he asked, "Where did you attend?"

"University of the Arts in London. Majored in fine art with honours. Top of my class."

He hummed in response, "Quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

There was a quiet lull in conversation, and as Thea set down her wine glass, she pored over the details of their eventful evening. "Dr Watson?"

" _John_ – you can call me – Nevermind." The doctor shook his head. "You were saying?"

"I was wondering," she started, "How did you end up at the pool? Did Moriarty kidnap you?"

Matthew furrowed his brows as he sipped his wine, "Moriarty? Is that the evil mastermind behind… well, everything?"

Thea nodded, looking to him as she spoke, "Unfortunately. He's – what's a good word for him? –deranged?"

"That's too tame," John chuckled, "But to answer your question, I don't entirely remember. We got back to the flat after solving West's murder, and when we discovered you weren't here, I decided to go to the Yard to alert Lestrade." He thought back to that moment as he chewed, trying to remember, "I think I hailed a cab, and when I got in…" Then he nodded, "That's right, I got in and then another man tried to get in and I told him the cab was taken. He didn't say anything, just stuck something in my arm."

Thea grimaced at the memory of the needle in her neck, touching the spot lightly, "Benzodiazepine. He used it on me, as well. Undoubtedly the same dose – but it would've affected me a lot more. He was surprised I woke up when I did, possibly thought I'd stay unconscious longer."

"Wait, you were drugged?" Hem asked suspiciously, "Shouldn't you be seeking treatment?"

Sherlock scoffed, picking at his food. "If it were a harmful quantity, she would be in a coma. There's no need for dramatics."

"This coming from the man who chose the pool where Carl Powers died as a battleground against his enemy," the detective's daughter shot back, and her father pursed his lips begrudgingly.

"I didn't strap a bomb to anyone."

She snorted. "I didn't realise we needed to start distinguishing between you and Moriarty in such a capacity."

Sherlock put his fork down in annoyance and stood, buttoning his jacket as he did. "I think that's enough intellectual battling for one night. Mr Heming – sorry. _Matthew_ – I thank you for the meal, but I'm not one for digestion, it slows me down. I'll excuse myself to the living room now, shall I close the doors?"

Thea shook her head, "Not all the way, but if you'd like a little privacy I won't argue."

He made a noise of acknowledgement and nodded once at Matthew before turning to the living room, closing the sliding French doors just enough that the room felt smaller and more intimate. Matthew glanced at Thea with a small smile, and John cleared his throat with a small laugh.

"Well I think he likes you, Matthew," he chuckled, and Thea bit her lip with a grin.

A little while later, after much conversation and laughing, Thea and Matthew stepped into cleaning the kitchen while John packed away the food, cautiously peeking into the fridge before placing things inside. As they were washing dishes, there came the low sound of the violin being played. Thea glanced at the living room, her heart swelling, as Matthew stopped for a moment and listened. It was a slow, tranquil melody with sad undertones, but beautiful all the same.

He turned with his back to the counter and leaned against it, drying his hands, "Is there anything he _can't_ do?"

To which both John and Thea immediately responded with variations of " _He_ doesn't think so."

Matthew laughed, shaking his head. They continued cleaning and drinking wine with John against the backdrop of Sherlock's composition, and when the kitchen was tidy, John looked at his watch.

"Blimey, later than I thought. I guess I'll bid you two good night," he yawned, starting for the stairs.

"'Night, Dr Watson," Thea called behind him, sticking her tongue at him as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he was climbing the stairs, shaking his head and muttering something being a brat. She looked back at Matthew, who quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Any particular reason you refuse to call him 'John'?"

"You must have missed the part where he looked exasperatedly at me, as if the very _idea_ of me exhausts him."

Matthew chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "He's right. You _are_ a brat."

She playfully shoved him and laughed, stepping away to peer through the sliding doors. Hem joined her, and they watched as Sherlock played at the window, pausing every so often to make changes in notes or adjustments to the flow.

"I could watch him for hours," Thea murmured thoughtfully, pressing her cheek to the door. "I used to as a child, before things were strained. I would sit on the floor of our tiny living room – back in those days we lived in a one-bedroom cottage near my grandparents in the countryside – and he would stand at the huge window, looking out to the garden, and he'd play for the entire day. He'd forget to make lunch, but I never complained. The music was so beautiful, I never wanted it to stop." She closed her eyes, going back in time. "I can hear it still, when I think of that cottage."

Hem leaned over and pressed a kiss to her hair. "It sounds absolutely lovely."

"It was, for a time." With a sigh, she turned from the doors and closed them behind her. "So, what plans do you have for tomorrow?"

He shrugged, his hands disappearing into his pockets as his eyes glazed over her. "Not much, I was thinking I might stop by the studio for a bit. Would you want to come with, see where I disappear to?"

"I'd be delighted," Thea grinned, then she checked her watch. "It's pretty late, did you want to stay the night? I know you don't have anything to change into but…"

"That's alright," Hem replied, taking her into his arms, "I'll stay."

Thea wrapped her arms around his waist, taking in the smell of vanilla once more, then she untangled herself from him and led the way upstairs. She hoped for a brief moment that she remembered to clean her room earlier, though she'd no doubt let it slip her mind. Once in her room, she haphazardly gathered her piles of schoolwork and free-writing on her desk, shoving it into the top drawer.

"I would have tidied a little more if I'd known you were staying over," she laughed nervously, running a hand through her wild curls.

Hem closed the door behind him and pulled her in for a chaste kiss, "It's charming." His eyes traced over the blue and grey comforter and sea of pillows, then he was looking at her multitude of tall bookcases. She had three of them, filled and overflowing with a wide variety of novels, ranging from classics like _Little Women_ to the Norton anthology to science fiction including _Nightfall_ and _Ender's Game_. "Your collection is marvellous. I mean, truly. It's got a little bit of everything."

"It'd better, I've spent so many years building it up to such," Thea teased, sitting on the bed and admiring her work. "Took a lot of Christmases and guilting my grandparents and uncle."

Hem walked up to one and began running his hand over the spines of her books, then his hand dropped and he turned to her. He bent towards her, his knuckles digging into the bed on either side of where she sat, before he kissed her deeply. She returned it, her hands tangling in his hair. She lowered herself onto her back, dragging him with her, and wrapped a leg around his waist. He started kissing her jaw, working his way to her neck.

"I never thanked you for dinner," Thea breathed, and Hem gave a small laugh into her ear.

"No need, I just hope you saved room for dessert," he whispered sensually and bit her neck. She squealed slightly in pleasure and pulled him closer to her.

When he found the button of her jeans, she couldn't help but think that she was so very lucky indeed to be alive.

* * *

 _AN: Hello, hello, hello! I'm back, yet again, with another Thea Holmes installment! I've actually had this chapter finished for a few days now, but I was having internet issues at my parents's house, so I had to wait for that to be sorted._

 _I'm so excited to give you this glimpse into Trust Me! I think it really sets the tone for the whole story - a little foreshadowing if you'd like._

 _As always, leave a review, give me your ideas as to what you think will happen. I crave your criticism. Favorite/follow for more updates. They're sure to come quicly!_


	2. Part 2

**_Part Two._**

The light streaming in her window was hitting directly at his jawline, and Thea traced her fingers along it with a light touch, careful not to disturb his sleep. His eyelids fluttered with dreams, and his eyebrows were furrowed, as if in a great dilemma. She didn't want to be creepy, but she'd been awake all night, alternating between reading and watching him sleep. He was fascinating in every way possible; she found it calming to study him. His hair was mused beyond all recognition, but she found it charming to know he wasn't perfect all the time.

With nimble fingers, Thea brushed away the hair from his forehead before she swept out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and disappeared into her bathroom. She brushed her teeth and attempted to fix up her hair, though she was pleased to find it wasn't as messy as she'd expected. She adjusted her nightdress, silky and suggestive, as she smiled coyly at her reflection. Then, aware of every footstep she took, she stole back into the bedroom and checked her watch. It was nearly seven in the morning. With a happy sigh, she climbed back into bed and opened her book, _Paradise Lost_.

Another half hour later, Hem began to stir in his sleep, so she closed her book and placed it on the nightstand. She hunkered further into the bed and cosied up to him, and he responded by folding her in his arms.

"Mornin'," he murmured into her, and she pressed her lips to his cheek.

"Morning, love. It's still early, I could make breakfast while you slept in a little while longer?" she suggested, but he shook his head.

"No need." His eyes flitted open and found her. He beamed affectionately, "You're the picture of early morning grace. Did you sleep?"

She buried her head against his chest. "Enough. I don't really sleep."

He hummed and began placing small kisses against her skin, from her forehead to her cheek, down to her collarbone. He propped himself up on his elbows as she moved under him, her hands cradling the spot where his jaw and neck met.

"I suppose I am a bit peckish," Hem said playfully as he bit under her ear, and she turned his face toward hers.

"I've got an idea as to what you could –" she started purring to him, but suddenly her door flew open and they bolted upright in bed, Hem on his knees in front of Thea as she hastily pulled her strap back up.

Sherlock seemed unaffected by their sudden impropriety, his eyes piercing his daughter's. He glanced once at the young man dressed only in his briefs, eyes wide with fear at a father's protective fury. But no fury came, only a quick spill of words.

"A potential client will be arriving soon, I suggest you quickly finish what you've already clearly started, make yourself presentable, and come downstairs post-haste." Then he glanced over the bedside table and quickly shut the door behind him as he left.

Thea let out the breath she was holding and propped herself back on her elbows. Hem ran a hand over his messy hair and furrowed his brows.

"He's not…"

"No," she half-laughed, "I told you, he's not like most fathers."

"I would say not," Hem agreed, then he started to lean down toward her. But she scrunched up her face and he asked, "Mood killer?"

"Major mood killer."

"Yeah, fair." He climbed off the bed and motioned to the bathroom. "May I?"

She nodded and climbed out of bed, making it as she replied, "Of course, you get cleaned up and I'll head downstairs to make breakfast, yeah?"

"You're an angel," Hem called as he closed the door behind him, and she smiled before turning to her wardrobe. She pulled out a heavy beige jumper that she paired with dark jeans and woollen socks, plaiting her hair before pulling on a pair of dark brown boots. Then she wound her way downstairs, the sound of running water becoming increasingly quieter behind her.

In the kitchen, Thea set the kettle on and set about preparing a small breakfast for them. Through the partially closed doors of the kitchen, she could see her father in the living room, sitting in his chair and plucking the strings of his violin as his eyes bored holes into the fireplace. John was nowhere in sight, presumably still in bed. She glanced at her father once more before calling out to him.

"Knocking would do just fine, you know."

"You didn't have sex, then."

Thea dropped the pan she was holding a little harder onto the stovetop than she'd intended. "No, I'm afraid we were too busy trying to regain some of our dignity."

"I appreciate that you're being safe, you know," he said suddenly, and she took a moment to glance at him with a quirked eyebrow. "The drawer on your right side table was slightly open and that's where you keep –"

" _I'm going to pretend you're not_ actually _talking about this_ ," Thea shouted over his next words, covering her ears and turning back to the stove. When she felt the conversation was safe again, she called, "What would you have done if we were right in the middle of… whatever it is we'd be in the middle of?"

"Quite the same, I'm sure."

She sighed and muttered, "Right. Why wouldn't you have? Silly me."

Not long later, she was setting the table as Hem walked in, messing his damp hair and wearing his clothes from the night before. She smiled warmly at him and pecked a kiss as she walked past him.

"Eat up, I slaved away for several hours to make this delectable meal for you," she teased, and he scrunched his nose as he smiled impishly at her.

"Somehow I don't believe that."

Thea fake pouted, "The hours or delectable part?"

"Clearly the hours, I doubt you could ruin anything if you tried," Hem gushed, tucking a napkin over his lap as he gazed up at her.

She placed an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "You're a darling. Go ahead and start without me, I'm going to the living room to grill this client with Papa - see if we've got anything _interesting_." On the last word, she waggled her eyebrows at her beau and spun from the kitchen, closing the French doors behind her. She heard the chuckles behind her and she tried not to smile. Her father was standing at the window, looking out to the street below as he stirred his tea thoughtfully. He was in a different suit from the night before, but his hair was the same, meaning he hadn't slept either. She wondered if he ever did.

"He'll be here within the next few minutes," he said to the window, and she fell into John's armchair.

"Any inclination as to what we'll be dealing with?"

"Man, might be in his early forties, deep voice but scratchy, as if he constantly yells. He's called a few times but hung up on the first two calls, meaning he doesn't really want to come to us but he feels he has little choice," Sherlock rattled off, turning to seat himself across from her. "His voice was boring."

She raised an eyebrow at him, "How could you tell? You said yourself that you barely spoke to him."

"I can tell," was his curt response, so she rolled her eyes and waited for their man to arrive.

When Mrs Hudson knocked on the door a moment later, she introduced their potential client with gathered brows, the lines on her worried face made deeper.

"Sherlock, there's a Mr Thomas Earhart here, he says he's a client?" She pressed a manicured finger to her lips. They were painted to match her aubergine-coloured blouse.

The detective stood and buttoned his jacket as the brusque man pushed into the room. He was tall, heavy, and imposing in their cosy room, as if he were distorting the room around him. It was as if he were a planet, and the gravity of the flat had changed the minute he'd set foot there. He had greying, balding straw-coloured hair with a smattering of similarly coloured facial hair. His eyes were deep-set and muddy, as if they'd been trampled in the rain, and his nose was bulbous and sneered as it loomed down on Thea. When he spoke, it was with authority that ordered respect without bothering to earn it.

"Holmes, I'm Mr Earhart. My friends call me Tommy," he boomed, shaking out nervousness from his shoulders as he attempted to joke, "But we're not friends yet, so call me Mr Earhart."

Thea sighed and stood as her father tentatively shook his hand. Mrs Hudson made a small noise of worry before disappearing down the stairs. "Right, okay. If you would, _Mr Earhart_ ," the young woman emphasized, motioning to the chair at the table. "You can sit and tell us, from the beginning, why you've come to us."

He eyed her suspiciously, insults forming on his lips, but Sherlock interrupted his thoughts as he cleared his throat, "No need for extraneous words, Mr Earhart, my daughter deserves the same respect as you'd give me."

The man set his mouth in a line, his eyes resting heavily on the detective. Thea wondered how a person could live such a weighted life and still be able to carry themselves. Mr Earhart sniffed loudly and settled into the chair, rubbing his palms on his worn jeans. He looked around the room, as if it were collapsing onto him, and Thea shared a remiss glance with her father as they sat.

The man in the chair cleared his throat and swiped a hand across his nose before interlocking his fingers. He began fidgeting, and Thea watched his movements carefully. He was wearing his wedding ring, gold and dull, but it was too tight around his finger, as if he'd not worn it for some time and hadn't thought to get it sized recently. All of his knuckles were scarred, some quite heavily, and there seemed to be permanent bruising around some. He liked to hit things, and Thea was willing to bet some of those things included walls and his wife.

"Well," Mr Earhart started, his voice slightly shakier but still brash in nature, "it started a monf or so ago. My wife, Anna, she usually doesn't socialise. She likes to stay at home and do housewife work, you know?"

Thea leaned her cheek against her hand, replying sarcastically, "Hmm. As a woman does."

"Yeah," he agreed, not catching the implication. Sherlock sighed involuntarily. "So I says, 'Awright, that's perfect. Gives me time to me boys.' For years, this is how we did fings. But then one night, she comes down the stairs, all dolled up, and says she's going out. I ask, 'Who you goin' out wif?' – cause, you know, she doesn't do that. She says she's got a mate in from out of town, they're gonna drink a bit and she'll be back later. I figure, 'Awright, it's one night. It could do her some good.'

"It's late, and I try and wait up for her but she doesn't show, and I'm so tired that I just fall asleep. Morning comes, and I find her in the kitchen. I ask her what time she got back. She says she doesn't remember, that it was real late. I tell her that I expect her to be home 'fore a certain time, 'cause I love her and want her safe, you know?"

"Clearly," Sherlock interrupted, pitching his fingers in their usual tent formation as his eyes searched the room for something more interesting than the man in front of them. "I'm going to stop you there; you think she's cheating on you, and you want us to investigate and validate your suspicion?"

Mr Earhart, looking a little stunned, nodded vigorously, "Yeah, how'd you know? She disappears all the time, she's taking care of herself, making herself look nice. But it's not for me, I know."

Thea crossed her arms and sighed. "Any sensible woman would cheat on you, _Tommy_ , and Anna is a woman coming to her senses."

" _'_ _Scuse me?!_ "

She stood and pointed out her observations, her hands quick and precise as she tore into him with a certain gratification. "Your hands are bruised and scarred – you like to hit walls or objects to show Anna you're unsatisfied, and sometimes, you end up hitting her, too. Probably a learned behaviour from your father, you grew up watching your mother cater to his every whim based on fear alone. She couldn't stop him from hurting you when you were naughty, so you grew to think women were nothing more than glorified housekeepers. On top of all that, you're loud and obnoxious and wouldn't know how to free yourself from a paper bag if you were given directions and a map. You demand respect, but you don't even respect your marriage, given that you don't wear your wedding ring. You had to squeeze into it just for appearance's sake. Your mates might be the only people in the world who could honestly tolerate you for long periods of time. And honestly, Tommy, I wouldn't be surprised if Anna presented you with divorce papers this very afternoon."

Her father joined her in standing and walked to the door, "Now, Tommy, if you would be so kind as to stop wasting our time, you should leave now."

The large man let out a large huff, and Thea was reminded briefly of a certain fairy-tale from childhood. He stood and looked down his fat nose at her.

"You don't know a fing about me," he glowered, and she shrugged, stepping a little closer as her eyes darkened toward him.

"Maybe not," Thea admitted, and her tone became lower, "But I'll tell you something about myself. If you lay a _finger_ on Anna, or whoever she's happily sleeping with, I know several hundred ways to make your death look like an accident." He looked her over, as if debating with himself if she were serious. "I've solved plenty of murders – I would know."

Thomas Earhart, for once in his life, looked frightened, and he swallowed hard before turning and leaving the flat quickly. When his footsteps had receded, Thea closed her eyes and tangled her fingers into the hair at her scalp, exhaling deeply. Sherlock closed the door and glanced at his daughter, his hands clasped behind his back.

In a quiet voice, he reproached, "I don't normally condone that sort of threat."

She nodded absentmindedly. "I know, I'm sorry. I just thought of his wife, and he was such a _brute_ – "

"It was necessary. I might have done the same."

Thea opened her eyes and gazed at him thoughtfully, trying to find the right words to fill the room. But she wasn't given much of a chance as the kitchen door slid open slightly, revealing Hem. He looked excited as his eyes shot between the father-daughter duo.

"So? What's the case?"

Thea half-smiled. "That depends, what are your thoughts on murder?"

Hem considered her through squinted eyes, trying to read her. "Committing or solving…?"

She threw back her head and laughed, walking toward the kitchen as she did. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her, trying to ignore the both of them as Thea grabbed Hem's shoulders and pressed her chest to his. "That depends – how handy are you with a shovel?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and kept his eyes trained on the fireplace as he spoke, "I'm headed to the lab. The test results from the cabbie's pill should be in shortly."

Thea regarded her father with furrowed brows. "From _A Study in Pink_?" Her father winced at the blog title, but she ignored it. "You're only just now getting it back?"

"We had other cases, Thea."

She stepped away from the kitchen doors and Hem as she crossed her arms. "Well, yeah, but that was months ago. Speaking of which, if our future cases are anything like that last bloke, I'm going to have to actually focus on my schoolwork, or even worse, trying to get into _university_. Don't make me resort to that."

Her father scoffed, "Please, your uncle's had your spot reserved since you were born." He hurriedly threw on his coat and scarf, still refusing to look at her. "Now, I really must go, Thea. Text if you need me." His eyes glazed over the table in the living room and he added, "And if my experiments could be returned to the kitchen, please…" Then he was dashing out the door, with her calling behind him.

"Right, because we definitely didn't want to be able to eat in there." Thea followed him halfway, leaning over the banister as she yelled down, "We're talking about the tests tonight!" Her indignation was met with the front door slamming. She took a deep breath, trying to exhale her frustration before turning around to see Hem at the door. She half-smiled. "Well, I guess that means I'm yours for the day."

He swooped in and pulled her close, dipping her slightly for a kiss, "Aren't I the lucky one?"

She grinned into his warm lips and held him closer, feeling grateful again for the little things in life.

* * *

 _AN: Hiya! Sorry it's been so long, I've just been struggling to get this filler chapter in. I needed it, but my mind is on future chapters. Don't you hate when that happens? Anyway - next chapter is probably going to be short, but it's necessary, I promise! Then onto the fun stuff!_

 _Read, review, and favorite/follow! Love you all!_


	3. Part 3

**_Part Three._**

A little over a year and a half later, when Thea looked back on all that had transpired, she often wondered if she could have changed the outcome of everything. She wondered what could've been said or done to alter her life for the better. She wondered if she shouldn't have told Dr John Watson to write his blog. She wondered if she should have stuck to her studies, reaching ambitiously to be an editor for an esteemed publishing company. And she wondered if, even for a moment, she could ever be happy again. The course of life was a fixed one, she'd eventually resolved in her thoughts, and the trials in hers were always meant to play out the way they did.

She was always meant to be heartbroken. She was always _destined_ to be an orphan.

* * *

Thea collapsed in John's armchair, having just built a roaring fire to warm her tired limbs, with a book on the side table next to her. She glanced at it and thumbed through the pages, attempting to find the place she'd last left on earlier that morning. It was late in the night; she and Hem had spent the day at his workshop, a space he rented out to work specifically on his sculptures, as well as walking around the city, mostly talking but stopping occasionally in small, eclectic shops. It had all culminated in a bag of books, matching silver scarves embroidered with their initials, and tired, aching feet.

What had fascinated her most was Hem's work, his art pieces that cried out for human attention and understanding. They were massive in height, seemingly reaching out to touch the stars and planets. He liked working with sharp edges and lines, and it was somehow combined with graceful curves to create caricatures of objects, such as a fountain pen aimed at the sky.

"I call it 'A Test of Might'," he'd explained, laughing at himself as his hand found the back of his head. "It's cliché."

Thea had circled the piece, admiring it, "No, no… Maybe. But it's magnificent."

She'd been given a tour of the facilities and the tools of his craft, and he set to working a little on his most recent project, an illusory representation of a thorny rose, to explain his process.

She was thinking about his work when she heard the front door slam open from below. She furrowed her brows – John was on a date of his own, with a plain woman named Sarah – and her father was not one to announce his presence on a whim. But sure enough, she could hear a baritone singing from the stairwell. She stood, worried, and started for the stairs. She peeked over the banister and was shocked to find her father, normally so composed and in control of himself, sprawled on the bottom stairs of the building, a large bottle in his left hand that swung from his lips to his side. Thea felt her stomach drop as she rushed down the stairs.

"Papa! What've you done?" she cried, and he looked up at her with sagging eyes as she passed the last few steps between them.

"Theeea," he slurred, and she caught a whiff of the intense alcohol he held in his hand. She stepped over him and knelt at his side, assessing his state. "So nice to see you."

"Jesus, how much have you been drinking?" Thea interrogated, and she stood, helping him along the way. She threw his arm over her shoulder and made him stand, keeping his weight firmly against her. "C'mon, upstairs. We can talk up there."

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, "Sure, sure. Where's John? I need t' thank him." He took careless steps and struggled as Thea kept him upright.

She sighed, "He's not here, he went out with a girl, name's Sarah."

"He's on a date?" There was a hint of disappointment in his tone, but he seemed to cast it aside, "Good for him."

His daughter scoffed, the last flight of steps ahead of them, "She's boring. It won't last."

Sherlock hummed in slight satisfaction, and they crossed the threshold into their flat. Thea settled him into his armchair, prying his coat and scarf from him with careful hands. He was staring blankly into the fireplace, watching as the embers flared and faltered in a silent rhythm, and his legs were splayed out in front of himself, stretching toward John's chair. His eyes were sad, and his mouth was pouted as if he were on the verge of tears. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her father look so much like someone else.

She cleared her throat nervously, "Erm, I'm going to make tea." Sherlock barely nodded, and she crept slowly toward him before taking the bottle from his left hand. He let it drop from his hand into hers. She pressed it to her chest and backed into the kitchen, keeping her eyes trained on him. It had been a bottle of hard whiskey; it was half-empty. "Is it a danger night?"

Thea hated using the term, something Mycroft had come up with years before to signal when her father was close to abusing substances again. It felt demeaning to use it against her father, but it felt necessary in the moment.

He shrugged. "The possibility is ever-present. Every night could be a danger night."

She took a deep breath. In the back of her mind, she knew it was true. The lure of the high, the thrill of chasing that small taste of euphoria, would never leave him. But it didn't make it easier to hear. She distracted herself with the kettle and tea leaves. "You're lucky I'm the one who found you. Anyone else would have contacted Lestrade or, worse, Uncle."

He waved away her words, like nagging flies, and curled himself up sideways in his chair. "Boring."

Thea bit the inside of her lip in frustration and blew a harsh stream of breath through her nose. She let the silence impregnate the room before carrying over his cup of tea. When he'd taken it, she sat back down in John's armchair, her elbows propped on her knees as she leaned forward to warm herself. She found that the words she wanted to say were stuck in her throat. "The results weren't good, were they?"

Her father didn't need to ask what she meant. He seemed to be watching the fire with more intensity than before. "I was wrong."

Thea thought back to that night, the night John had saved her father. She'd always thought that maybe it had been unnecessary, killing the cabbie. Maybe Sherlock had chosen correctly, and a man had died for nothing – other murders aside. She could feel the cabbie in the room with them, hovering over her with his downy white hair and newsie cap, glasses perched haughtily over his crooked nose. A gloating smile was twisted on his thin lips, and he was mouthing the words, _"I won."_ She swallowed hard.

"It was a fifty-fifty shot," she reassured quietly, feeling as if a harp player were strumming her heartstrings into a forlorn melody. "You're here now, that's what matters."

"I was sure I was right," Sherlock continued, ignoring her comforts. "I _had_ to be right. I'd made certain in my mind that I chose right for _you_."

Thea didn't know what to say. She felt a lump forming in the back of her throat, threatening to barricade the air from her lungs. "For me?"

"I couldn't abandon you." His voice had broken slightly, his hands cupped tightly around the teacup. "I promised _her_ that I'd always…" He stopped, swallowing at the realisation of where he was directing the conversation, before pressing the cup to his lips. "Nevermind."

She leaned back into the armchair. The opportunity was just there at her fingertips, all she had to do was seize it. "Why don't you talk about her?" She could see Sherlock darkening; the thought of her mother was like a flower that closed up at the slightest of touches. "Please, Papa, I don't know anything about her."

"You know she was an artist, and she loved you," her father retorted abruptly. "I've told you as much."

Thea pushed herself from her seat and kneeled in front of his chair, her hands on his arm. "It's not enough!" she cried, gripping him tightly as tears pricked her eyes. "I want to know what her hopes and dreams were, I want to know what her favourite colour was. I want to know what she looked like, how she smiled, the way she interacted with the world. I want to know so much about her that it feels like she's a part of me." In a smaller voice, she whispered, "I want to know where she's buried. I want to visit her – I want to _talk_ to her."

Sherlock looked down at his daughter, her pretty face glowing orange in the flickers of the fire. It cast shadows across her, highlighting the desperation in her eyes as she gazed up at him. The room in his mind palace, dedicated to her mother, had been kept behind a brick wall, safe from him. He'd have destroyed it the moment she'd died if it weren't for Thea, the illustration of their love. And now, as their daughter pleaded for her, he could feel the bricks crumbling. He watched in his mind's eye as the door became more and more discernible, the bricks turning to dust that billowed around him. His mind palace trembled at the sudden disturbance, as if the whole world had shifted. And then suddenly, the door to her opened, and he felt a wash of light and warmth as she came back to him.

He felt her name on his lips, he was breathing her in and tasting her skin, and suddenly he was falling through his memories.

Thea watched as Sherlock's sky-coloured eyes suddenly began spilling tears, and she reached up to wipe them away. "I'm sorry, Papa, I didn't mean to open old wounds, I just –"

"Her name was Gwen. She had my heart the moment she smiled," he remembered quietly, and Thea listened, overwhelmed, as her father went on. "We met in university, at one of the few parties I attended." He paused just a moment to stare up at the mantle, as if trying to clear the tears in his eyes. "She was wearing this beautiful green dress that exactly matched her eyes, and she moved with such purpose that I knew I must talk to her. But she seemed to have the same idea about me, and she came up to me and asked, 'Have we met?' I was so flustered that I went right into deducing her, and I thought to myself that I was the epitome of insolence. I was sure I'd scared her off – but she was fascinated. She laughed and pulled me to a quiet spot, where we talked the rest of the evening."

Thea, a smile tugging at her lips, played the scene in her mind, "What did she look like?"

Sherlock glanced at the bookcase and murmured, "I could tell you but…" and he stood, carefully, and reached for a certain book, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. "It would be best to show you." And he opened the book to pull out two pictures, closing it and setting it on the table next to him before sitting back in his chair. He held the pictures tightly between his fingers, hunching himself over them as he looked down. Then without a word, he held them out to his daughter. Thea took them gingerly and felt her heart begin pounding in her chest. Then she looked down at her mother for the very first time.

It felt like Thea was looking at a different version of herself. The woman in the first photograph had long, wavy, chestnut hair that had been recently tousled, with hazy green eyes that seemed to unlock the secrets of the world. A daisy was tucked behind her right ear. Thea had her mother's nose and lips, she realised, and she touched them absentmindedly. The long and narrow bridge of her nose, the full bowed lips that begged for a smile and a kiss. Her mother looked a little older than herself, about nineteen years old, laughing at the camera and revealing a dimple in each freckled cheek. She was wearing a striped, short-sleeved shirt with a high neck, coloured in reds, oranges, browns, and golds. She had recently been on holiday, given the golden hue of her skin and the freckles that peppered it.

She flipped over the photograph to see the date. Her mother had autographed it, with spiralling curls and flourishes. Her surname was indecipherable. The date on the back revealed the photo had been taken in August of 1991, less than a year before Thea was born. She looked up at her father.

"Did she know yet?" she asked tentatively. Sherlock shook his head, resting his chin against his fist. The effects of the alcohol seemed to be wearing off, slowly but surely.

"We didn't find out until a couple of weeks later." When Thea nodded, he felt compelled to add, "She was nervous of the implications at first, but she loved you from the moment we knew. She talked and sung to you every second she could, telling you constantly that we were so excited to meet you and watch you grow up."

Thea watched as her father sipped his tea carefully, eyes drowning in his cup. "Were you?"

There was a flash of blue in her direction before his eyes found the fire again. He took his time in answering. "I had never thought of myself as a potential father, Thea. My work had always been in another place, a distant place, where there were no distractions. But the morning we heard your heartbeat, I felt everything else melt away. I knew nothing in the world would ever matter as much as you did. And nothing ever has, despite my most selfish actions."

Thea felt her heart tighten with a sudden flush of affection, but she kept herself in check as she looked to the next photograph. In it, her mother had her arms wrapped around her father's neck, their cheeks pressed together as his right arm snaked around her waist with his other hand stuck in his pocket. They were smiling widely at the camera, in the same spot as the previous picture. Sherlock looked so young, with shorter hair and fewer lines etched into his handsome face. His smile transformed him into someone approachable, not the complicated man she knew now. She cleared her throat.

"I've never seen you so happy," she observed gently. "She brought out the best of you."

He gave a short laugh. "You haven't a clue. She was my reason for everything, until you were born." Thea started to hand back the pictures, but he held up a hand in protest. "Keep them. I have them up here." He pointed to his temple, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Thea looked back down at them, trying to memorise them. He watched her for a moment with the barest hint of paternal love for her, then asked, "Now, what else did you want to know about her?"

And there they sat, stoking the fire and talking of a woman made of sunshine, until dawn broke through the windows of 221B Baker Street, as if Gwen herself were greeting them for the new day.

* * *

 _AN: Hello again! This chapter turned out longer than I had thought, but I'm glad for it! I had struggled in where I wanted to introduce this chapter, whether I wanted it before or after the events of Scandal in Belgravia, but I decided that Gwen would be an excellent starting point for the events of S2E1._

 _I hope you enjoyed this chapter! More of Gwen is in the works, so don't be disappointed that there wasn't too much revealed here. As always, I encourage you to give me your thoughts! Please favorite/follow for more updates, and thank you so much for reading!_


	4. Part 4

**_Part Four._**

Sherlock was pacing and if he didn't stop soon, Thea was going to lose her mind.

She could feel him at her back as she sat in front of her laptop at the table in the living room, the screen lighting up her face with a pale glow. "Papa, if you'd just _sit down_." He didn't appear to hear her, and she sighed in defeat. At her left was John, one hand flat on the table as the other gripped tightly to the back of her chair, as he stood looming over her. At her right elbow was Claude; her platinum hair had grown out to her chin, and it was dark at the roots from the new growth. She had crossed her arms, but one hand was at her mouth as she bit her nails nervously.

Thea refreshed her email again, feeling her heart sink a little more every time she did. She was awaiting a response from _The London Magazine_ about her internship position. Hem had wanted to be there with her, but he had to leave at the last minute for a work trip. She'd promised to call him the minute she'd found out.

"Try again," Claude insisted, checking her watch, gold with small diamonds around its face. She'd received it recently from her parents for getting top marks in their class. "It's eleven fifty-seven, they said the emails would be sent by noon."

Thea, heart fluttering wildly, nodded. "I know, that's why I'm nervous." But she refreshed the page anyway and felt another horrible sink in her stomach when the page hadn't changed. "It's pointless, I'll just have to admit to myself that I didn't get it."

John shook his head. "Impossible, you're the perfect candidate."

"Not impossible," Sherlock muttered from behind them, his pacing continuing incessantly, "Technically there were a little over three thousand candidates, some internationally, and it's entirely plausible to think there were other perfectly intelligent choices."

The army doctor threw a pointed glare in the detective's direction, but he seemed oblivious. He lay a hand on Thea's shoulder. "He's just saying it because he's nervous as well."

Thea sighed, "I know. Doesn't make it less true, though." She looked down at her laptop's clock, running a hand over her hair before saying, "One more minute. When the clock hits twelve, I'm refreshing one more time. If there's no email, it's clear I wasn't picked."

John and Claude leaned in a little closer to her, and when the clock on the bookshelf started chiming, Thea refreshed the page. It seemed to load excruciatingly slowly, but when it did, there was a new email from _The London Magazine_.

Thea held her breath as she opened it, then read aloud, "'Miss Thea Anne Holmes, we are pleased to announce that you've been accepted as an intern for the summer of two thousand and ten!'" She immediately stood and screamed with Claude, joy exuding from every pore of their bodies. John was laughing and cheering beside them as Sherlock smiled behind them.

When they'd calmed down, he placed a hand to his daughter's back and pressed a kiss to her hair. "Congratulations. You've earned it."

She wrapped her arms around his waist. "Thank you, Papa." She pulled away and smiled broadly. "Now let's celebrate!"

* * *

A week later, Thea sat in front of her uncle in his tearoom for the breakfast they had finally managed to arrange. A small rectangular box decorated with a royal blue ribbon was outstretched in his hand. She set down her coffee and furrowed her brows. "It's not my birthday, is it?"

He half-smiled, his eyes turning to his muffin and parfait in front of him. "It's for all the hard work you've done. And so I may continue to… monitor you."

Thea rolled her eyes and took the box, untying the ribbon carefully and lifting the lid. Her eyes widened as she took out the phone, a model she'd never seen before. "What is it?"

Mycroft smiled mischievously, "State of the art technology. Hasn't even hit the markets yet. I managed to weasel my way into getting one from a few of my associates in the tech business. They say that anyone who's _someone_ has a similar model. If you're to have trouble with it, you're to go to their main office downtown and they'll take care of any problem, free of charge." He paused. "They owed me a favour."

She grinned and started up the phone, squealing in delight as it came to life. The entire front face edges were one screen, with a small camera just visible at the top. It was sheathed in a floral case that reminded her of the countryside she'd grown up in. Its interface was flawless, transitioning smoothly from different apps and gleaming with advanced technology. She lifted her eyes to meet her uncle's.

"Thank you."

"Congratulations on your internship, my dear," he commended smoothly, raising his teacup to her in a silent toast. He sipped at it coolly before his smile faded. "I suppose you know what I'm going to ask."

Thea set down the phone and picked at the eggs benedict on her plate. "I can't leave him. Things are going really well for us right now."

Mycroft sighed and began fidgeting with the serviette on his lap. "Yes, so I've heard. You've recently had a large influx of _cases_." The last word rolled off his tongue with distaste, as if it were sour.

She sat back and cupped her coffee in her hands to keep them warm. She brushed back a stray hair, "A lot of them aren't even exciting. Dr Watson's blog has a habit of bringing in people that only _think_ their case is interesting." She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. "And I'm trying to focus on the last of my schoolwork. I want to graduate with as little issue as possible."

Mycroft stuck his tongue in his cheek, and his niece could see the thoughts formulating in his head. "And what are your plans after graduation?"

The young woman shrugged. "I figure I'll take a year off from school, given that I have the internship, and work on bettering myself through the _Magazine_. I've no doubt I can snag a job in the time I'm there, if not with _them_ then with someone of their recommendation."

"I still believe you should spend some time in my home. It's not too far out of the city, so you're still within accessible distance of the _Magazine_ ," Mycroft chided, looking down his long nose at her.

Thea scowled and muttered contrarily, "Papa wouldn't approve."

"No, he wouldn't, would he?" He tried to hide a satisfied smile, though it was a poor attempt. "What a shame, that he can't put aside our differences for what might be better."

She scoffed and sat forward to scoop a forkful of her breakfast. "So many people think they know what's best for me. The wildest idea is the possibility that I might be old enough to make smart decisions for myself." She could practically hear her uncle's lips tighten.

"Do be careful, Thea," he said quietly, "That's all I ask."

His niece gave a small laugh. "I have no doubt you'll be keeping an eye on me, Uncle." After a small pause, she asked curiously, though not unkindly, "Have you been snooping in my personal life?"

Mycroft stirred his parfait as he considered his next words, "I've not crossed boundaries, if that's what you're asking. I know next to nothing of your new beau other than he graduated from the London Met."

Thea smiled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear. Now, why don't we set up your new phone?"

* * *

Spring turned to summer before Thea's very eyes, and with it came a number of changes in the flat. She graduated with flying colours, earning perfect scores in her exams and soaring to the top of her class. She spoke at her graduation on the values of life and their expectations as millennials to make the world better, and though she left out the details of her life outside of school, her classmates knew she spoke from the heart in a way no one else could. After her graduation, her father and John Watson took her to dinner at Angelo's, where they were joined by Hem and Claude for wine and excellent Italian cuisine.

Within a week of graduating, Thea started her work at the _London Magazine_. She was assigned to work with another young, pretty thing named Alexandria to focus on the sudden influence and flood of young adult novels within the past decade. Dria, as she insisted Thea call her, was fresh out of university, with long, straight hair the colour of dark coffee, always captured in a sleek high ponytail, and eyes built on determination. She talked quickly and with clipped sentences that clicked against her tongue in the same way her pointed heels clicked on the tiled floor. Her sun-darkened skin implied her heritage in Greece, and her accent hinted at the same.

"Our work is simple, but dedicated," she explained, leading Thea through the office with a busy attitude that wasn't unfriendly but business-like, "We do our research well, and our readers thank us for it by supplying the funds for our salaries." She flashed her eyes at Thea. "I like you; your essay was impeccable. I think you'll be one of the few to stick around after internships are done."

Thea nearly tripped over her own two feet as she kept pace with the tall Grecian, her introductory papers stacked tall against her chest. "You read my essay?!"

"The whole office did. Mr Goodwin was thoroughly impressed." Mr Goodwin being the current editor of the Magazine, he was a man of great influence within the company. It was encouraging to think that he'd been taken with her writing, but she reminded herself that it was just one essay. She still had so much more to prove, to herself and to everyone who had ever doubted her.

Weeks passed into months; in-between her writing and research assignments for her internship, Thea often found herself running with her father and John through the streets of London, on the hunt for solutions to great puzzles. John's blog had become something of a phenomenon, and he spent most evenings typing up his report on their latest case. In the end, not all of them could be solved.

She walked between her father and Lestrade, heading across a gravel road toward an inconspicuous car with its boot open. It was warm outside, but it didn't stop her father from wearing his typical, stifling suit. She opted instead for shorts and a flowy floral top, her feet donned with laced sandals.

The detective inspector turned to her father. "There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead."

Sherlock nodded once, his eyes made more intense in the dying light of the day, as he reproached, "Suspected terrorist bomb. We _do_ watch the news."

Thea scoffed as they approached the vehicle. "You said 'Boring' and changed the channel, Papa."

At the car, the Holmes duo began examining the details in front of them. A dead body, that of a middle-aged man, was cramped awkwardly within the boot. Other than basic details, Thea was surprised to find she didn't have many clues as to why he was dead. She looked up at her father, hoping that he had a better lead, but she found him looking impatiently at the body with tight lips. He didn't seem to be having much luck either.

Lestrade had given them some space to think, but he approached them now, a bag of evidence now in his hand. "According to the flight details of the crash, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So, this man _should_ have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."

Thea bit the inside of her cheek and contemplated the body. Nothing made sense, and Sherlock seemed inclined to agree. "Lucky escape," she expressed, popping the 'p' of the second word.

"Any ideas?" the DI asked inquisitively.

Sherlock pursed his lips and leaned forward to examine the man with his magnifier. "Eight, so far."

Thea crossed her arms and quirked an eyebrow at him ironically, then reached for the evidence bag Lestrade held out to her. She examined the details of the contents and creased her forehead. She hated not knowing something, and there was a mystery here that even she couldn't breach. "I've only got four."

The consulting detective straightened, closing his magnifier and looking to the skies as if they might reveal some hidden answer. "Maybe _two_ ideas."

* * *

Later, John and Thea sat at the table in the front room of the flat, typing away as they each worked on their respective pieces. John had his blog; Thea had her research. Her eyes were trained on the laptop as her right hand quickly scratched notes from her findings, her left scrolling almost perilously fast through the articles. Sherlock approached the table, a blowtorch in one hand and a beaker of green chemicals in the other. He was in a blue overcoat and wore large safety goggles along with rubber gloves. He peeked over John's shoulder, and his expression changed from one of curiosity to that of indignation.

"No, no, no, don't mention the unsolved ones!" he cried, motioning to the laptop with the beaker.

John, unfazed by the outburst, glanced up at the detective as he defended, "People want to know you're human."

The idea was foreign to Sherlock. "Why?!"

Thea sat back in her chair and dropped her pen as she responded with a smile, "Because they're interested, why else?"

Her father hissed and turned his head away, "No, they're not." But just as quickly, he turned back and asked, " _Why_ are they?"

She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, "Seriously? You need an answer to that?"

John smiled at his laptop, "Look at that." He nodded to the screen as he explained, "One thousand, eight hundred, ninety-five."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked over the doctor's shoulder again, his eyes scanning the page.

"I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours."

Thea smiled and picked up her pen as she leaned back toward her work. "See? This is your livelihood, Papa. You're making a difference, and while you may not care about that, people recognise and appreciate your work."

" _This_ is the work that gets you clients," John added, his hands returning to the keys. "Not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash." He was referring to Sherlock's recent work on his own blog, _The Science of Deduction_.

There was a pause in the room before both Thea and Sherlock muttered, "Two hundred and forty-three." He'd said it sulkily; she'd said it sarcastically, having already made the same mistake of rounding out the number. They looked to each other, and Thea shrugged innocently before he fired up the blowtorch and walked back to the kitchen, heating the beaker as he did.

She called after him, "Careful with that! I'm too busy to be cleaning up your messes, yeah?"

* * *

A week or so later, Thea, John, and Sherlock stood on the stage of a theatre on the Strand as a coroner began wheeling away the body of one late Mr Matthew Michael. Thea and Sherlock had been given tickets to a rendition of Terror by Night by a previous client as a thank-you gift. At the end of the show, the now-dead actor, playing a detective, revealed the murderer of the whodunnit mystery. The accused was William Howells, portraying the son of the murder victim, and he was to rush forward and hit the detective over the head with his aluminium crutch – but it was really supposed to be rubber, so that it wouldn't hurt Mr Michael. Unfortunately for the poor actor, a real crutch had been switched during an interim and he was now lying dead on a stretcher. When chaos broke, the detective's daughter had called for John, insisting there was fun to be had.

Thea watched them take the body with her arms folded across her chest. She felt overdressed in her shimmery black dress and strapped heels, and she felt herself clinging to the outskirts of the investigation to keep herself from the literal spotlight. The stage was swarming with police, and the audience had been ushered out as soon as it was apparent the man was dead. Her father was discussing the case with Lestrade, whose hand was rushing quickly over a notepad to take down the details.

"Any number of people had access to Mr Howells' dressing room," he was saying, and John was listening intently as he examined the pool of blood in the centre of the stage. "Among them were a few of the other actors and the director. Now, Mr Howells liked to have a drink, as was evident by his atrocious performance – "

Lestrade held up a hand, "Hang on, how is that obvious?" Suddenly the spotlights turned to the stage lowered in intensity, throwing the stage into the lights of the forensics team.

Thea stepped up to the small group and turned her attention to the detective inspector. Her cobalt eyes glittered in the lights, almost as much as her dress. "He called one of the actresses by her name, not her character, and you could see the bruises on Mr Michael's arms from where he'd been hit in previous performances; Mr Howells was missing the padding in his colleague's jacket meant to prevent such injuries."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, "Initially, there were five potential suspects; the director has since been cleared as she confessed she was in love with Mr Howells. She wouldn't detriment his chances of success by orchestrating a murder and framing him."

"That narrows us down to four," Thea continued, turning to the actors across the way and pointing them out to Lestrade. "Sarah admitted she was having an affair with Howells, and Jonathan, who played her brother, admitted he was in love with Sarah. But no clear motive can be distinguished between them. We move onto Karen, who played the maid. She admitted to having an affair with Mr Michael, but she couldn't have possibly hidden a crutch and smuggled it inside the dressing room. For costume purposes, she's been cleared."

Lestrade nodded as if he understood, "So it was Howells then."

"Not remotely," Thea found herself responding, shaking her head and frowning. "If he wanted to kill his colleague, there were easier ways to go about it. Besides, he was drunk by the end of the first act. He couldn't have managed it in his state."

The detective inspector ran a hand through his hair and sighed wearily, "Alright, skip to the part where you tell me who did it."

Sherlock half-smiled and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. "Mr Matthew Michael."

"I swear to God, Holmes if you're just havin' a laugh – "

"Mr Michael felt Mr Howells was unprofessional, a laughing stock, and a drunk, but the director was in love with him and refused to sack the man. He decided to take matters into his own hands. His overcoat was large enough to smuggle in the aluminium crutch undetected, and Mr Howells was embroiled in a fight with Jonathan over Sarah during the interim – perfect cover to switch out the crutches," Sherlock rattled off, and John turned over the details in his mind, keeping them intact so he might write about them later.

Thea continued his seemingly-endless stream of consciousness, "But Mr Michael underestimated the argument. Mr Howells drank more than he normally would in the aftermath of it, and in doing so, he returned to the stage in a state that impaired his ability to keep to his stage blocking. Mr Michael was hoping for a broken arm at most, so his counterpart might finally be fired, but Mr Howells aimed too high. He was struck in the head instead, and such a blow turned out to be fatal." She cocked her head, "Easier ways to commit suicide, but to each their own."

The detective inspector glanced around the crime scene as if trying to find something, _anything_ , to dissipate their solution. When he gave a resolved sigh, he started off to the offstage area. "Right, of course."

Thea looped her arm through John's as they followed Sherlock and Lestrade off the stage and to the backstage exit. "Impressive enough, Dr Watson?"

The good doctor laughed, "I'm always impressed. It's the readers we have to worry about."

She shrugged and smiled, "I think we manage to impress them too, somehow. What's this one going to be titled? 'The Head-Turner'?"

"'Don't Drink and Act?'" John fired back, grinning.

"'A Screaming Ovation?'"

"'The Curious Incident of the Crutch in the Night-time?'"

"Oh, that's a good one," Thea enthused, squeezing his arm.

Ahead, Lestrade turned back to the three of them, "There's a lot of press outside, so you know."

"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock said offhandedly, but his attention perked when Lestrade disagreed.

"Yeah, that was _before_ you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted pictures of you three."

Sherlock groaned and glared back at John, "For God's sake!"

Thea stopped and unhooked herself from the doctor as they passed a dressing room. She grabbed three hats and tossed the first, a deerstalker, at her father. "Here, cover your faces." The second, a bowler hat, she gave to John, which he begrudgingly donned as she did the same with a panama hat.

"Walk fast," Sherlock called behind him, irritation thick in his tone.

Thea caught up to him and asked tentatively, "Isn't this a good thing? A big case like this… It's good for our public image."

He scoffed but didn't look at her, "I'm a private detective – the last thing I need is a public image."

"And here I thought you were a consulting detective. I'll have to cancel that order on your business cards, then," she remarked sarcastically with a half-smile. They were approaching the back door now, Lestrade's hand at the ready on the cross-bar. They gathered at it and when Sherlock nodded, Lestrade threw it open and led them through the throng of flashing lights and raucous reporters. Her father kept his head down as he reached for her hand, tightly holding to it as he pushed through the crowd. She was grateful for his guidance, as she was nearly blinded by the time they got to the curb. A cab was waiting for them, and Sherlock opened the door for her and John to climb in first.

Lestrade yelled over the noise to her father, "I'll call when something else pops up, yeah?"

He nodded, then slid into the vehicle and closed the door behind him. They were still being assailed by the flashbulbs of cameras, and the cabbie chuckled from the front seat.

"You famous or some'in?"

Thea shared a flashy grin with John, "You could say that. Look up the name 'Sherlock Holmes' sometime. You might be amazed."

* * *

 _AN: Hello all! Thanks for the patience! I've been working on trying to get through as much of the beginning of SiB as possible, since a lot of it is just jumping through time._

 _I wanted to thank a few of my reviewers for constantly giving me feedback! So a special thanks to galwidanatitud, LadyRedStar, and waterlily91! You guys have been so encouraging and I really appreciate it! Thank you!_

 _As always, review and favorite/follow for notifications on updates! I'm already working on the next chapter!_


	5. Part 5

**_Part Five._**

Thea peered out the front window of the car, her hands yearning to examine evidence. John was to her left with his clear eyes focused heavily on the laptop in front of him.

"I hope the connection is strong enough," he muttered as he fiddled with a few of the settings.

She half-smiled as they began approaching the crime scene, cordoned off by fluorescent tape and guarded by a few younger officers in equally fluorescent jackets. "We're about to find out." The car idled just outside of the yellow tape, and an officer walked to her window as she rolled it down. When he was close, she smiled warmly, "Hi, here to see the crime scene. Thea Holmes – Lestrade was supposed to call?" The young man looked unsure and held up a hand as he walked away to another man, the leading officer of the case by the looks of it. She sighed and opened the door anyway. "Coming, Dr Watson?"

"Shouldn't we wait for…"

"No."

She stepped out and made sure the doctor was right behind her before striding up to the lead officer of the case, though he seemed to have the same idea.

"Mr Holmes, I presume?" he called out to John, extending a hand. But Thea took it instead, catching the detective off-guard.

"No. But I'm his daughter. My companion here is Dr John Watson," she introduced, shaking the detective's hand firmly with a charismatic smile as she glanced over his badge – _'Detective Carter'_. "I'll be looking over the scene as Dr Watson consults with my father via video chat. Do you have WiFi?"

Carter looked at her as if she were mental, but without another word he turned to another officer and motioned him over. When the officer was near, the detective commanded, "Get the online connection up and running, and escort Ms Holmes to the body." He turned his watery eyes back to her and set his mouth in a line. "Let's see if you live up to expectations."

Thea gave a witheringly sarcastic smile in the detective's direction and crossed her arms. "It'd be my pleasure." Then she walked past him and turned her gaze to the swath of nature before her. It was beautiful, she imagined, when it wasn't tainted with teams of officers. They swarmed the area like pests, their cameras pointed at the sea of grass and their pads swirling with unimportant ribbons of notes. The younger officer motioned for her, but she cocked her head at him and said plainly, "I think I can find my own way, thanks." She walked some ways down the hill, the officer's face turning red, as John trailed behind her, bringing her father online.

She approached the body at the water's edge as she was snapping on her gloves, then reached for her pocket magnifying glass as she stooped to look closer. She carefully looked closer at the man's hands, noting the fact that he had been left-handed as her companion began talking with Sherlock. He'd been making calculations on a notepad, though she couldn't identify the mathematics involved.

"You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?" John asked, but the consulting detective walked on-screen in his bedsheet anyway. His daughter glanced back and gave a short, wry laugh before rifling through the dead man's pockets for any speck of a lead.

"It's okay, I'm fine," he brushed John's question aside, and the world tilted as the detective took the laptop to the sitting room. "Now, show me the stream."

Thea, disappointed by a lack of evidence, stood and took the laptop from John before she pointed it at the water, "He didn't mean for you, Papa. Honestly, was it too much effort to get dressed this morning?"

"Look, this is a six," Sherlock continued, a hint of irritation in his tone. "We all agreed that there's no point in me leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. Show me the grass."

Thea crouched again and pointed the camera to the grass surrounding the body as Detective Carter began approaching. She thought over her last conversations with her father and their flatmate. "What do you mean? When did we agree on that?"

"We agreed on it yesterday – get closer."

But she turned the screen to face her and gave her father a dubious glance, "We weren't even home yesterday. I was with Claude at her photography exhibition and Dr Watson was in Dublin."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his daughter, "Well, it's hardly _my_ fault neither of you were listening."

Thea scoffed and cocked her head, "This is at least a seven. You're just still mad that I called your last case a four and a quarter, at best."

"It involved a missing bust of Nietzsche and a nun operating a local opium-smuggling ring, and you called it _boring_. I think I've set your standard too high," her father retorted, then motioned for her to turn the camera back around. She obliged reluctantly. There was the sound of the doorbell ringing in the background, but Sherlock simply turned his head toward it and shouted, " _Shut up!_ " in its general direction.

Thea made a noise of amusement as she asked, "Do you ever think that maybe there's someone important on the other side of the door?"

"Never," Sherlock deadpanned, then commanded, "Show me where the car backfired." Thea stood and held the laptop up high as she turned the camera to the car up on the road, where it was being swarmed by officers. "That's the one that backfired, yes?"

"Yeah," Thea answered, then faced the laptop back towards herself and half-smiled. "But if you're thinking 'gunshot wound', you're wrong. Fatal wound was a single blow to the back of the head, and the weapon seemed to have magically disappeared in the span of three seconds. That's an eight _at least_."

Sherlock mulled over the details and Carter appeared behind Thea, directing his comment to the sheet-clad consulting detective.

"You've got two minutes, then I want to know more about the driver."

Thea and her father scrunched their noses, replying simultaneously, "He's not important."

Then Sherlock continued, "In fact, he's an idiot. Why else would he consider himself a suspect?"

" _I_ think he's a suspect!" Carter retorted heatedly, his accent heavy on the suggestion.

Sherlock leaned in toward the camera and growled to Thea, "Pass me over."

She sighed and shook her head, "Alright, but there's a mute button and I'm not afraid to use it." She passed the laptop to Detective Carter and saluted him sarcastically, "I'll be down by the stream if and when he becomes irascible." Then she turned on her heel and headed back to the water's edge. She passed John on her way, calling to him, "Be a dear and make sure Papa doesn't make enemies."

He laughed curtly and nodded, "A challenge, but I'll try my best."

"You always do, Dr Watson."

Thea stuffed her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, her quick eyes ruminating the landscape as she paused at the water's edge. She bit her cheek and stepped herself into the dead man's shoes for a moment. He was a traveller, that much was obvious from his large hiker's backpack and heavy coat, though he'd recently come back from warmer climates, as told from his tanned face and hands. The callouses on his fingertips and palms could mean any number of things, even that he was a violin player, but she was inclined to think that he was a sportsman.

She almost sighed frustratedly until a thought came to mind. He had been watching the skies – birdwatching, maybe? But she shook her head. No, he hadn't had any ornithology guides in his pack. So, what then? She walked a little further down the stream. "If I'd been travelling and fancied a bit of sport, where would I have gone?" she wondered aloud, then she paused and looked to the skies as a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, "More importantly, what would I have brought _back_?"

In the distance, Thea could make out the white noise of a helicopter flying overhead, and she glanced up in habit only to be surprised when she found it quite low in the sky. She looked behind her to find John and saw that he'd lost the connection with her father. An officer tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the sky, where the helicopter was approaching. Thea jogged back toward him and waved him to her. When he was close, they turned to watch the aircraft land on the grass.

"We're being summoned," Thea leaned in and shouted over the clamour, and John's brows furrowed.

"By whom?"

She sighed, "Let's see… Who do we know that has control of the British military?" They glanced at each other sardonically, and when motioned forward, climbed into the belly of the helicopter. They were handed headphones and buckled themselves carefully before the aircraft climbed back into the sky.

* * *

The sight of Buckingham Palace beneath Thea's feet was not something she would soon forget. Not long after they'd landed in the gardens, Thea and John were escorted into the Palace, asked to change into more formal clothing that had no doubt been collected from Baker Street, and led to a "small" sitting room with large windows and lavish furnishings in rich golden and royal tones. The attendant, a tall blonde man with a large nose, motioned to the room and quickly turned and walked back the way they'd come.

And there, sitting on a sofa with only a bedsheet covering him, was her father.

Thea folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow at him when he slowly looked over at them, and he shrugged nonchalantly as if relaying that he had no idea why they'd been called to the nation's most coveted attraction. John and Thea shared a glance before making their way slowly to the sofa.

She sighed as she sat, her eyes catching her father's bedsheet again, and John sat to her right. There was a quiet that settled over the room as they awaited their fate. Thea took the opportunity to ask Sherlock, almost cynically, "Did you bother putting pants on?"

"No," was his quick reply. His daughter nodded once in acknowledgment, and after a moment they all looked at each other and broke into a harmony of laughter.

Thea wiped a tear from her eye when the giggling subsided and muttered, "Right, Buckingham Palace – and you forget your pants, let alone your _trousers_. Good Lord, I feel I should abscond with an ashtray to commemorate this."

Sherlock chuckled under his breath as John shook his head, still fighting the sniggers that had overtaken him. He looked up at the ornate ceiling, admiring the details. "Oh, what are we doing here, Sherlock? No, seriously, what?"

The detective's eyes roamed the room with quiet intensity, though a small smile played with a corner of his pointed mouth as his baritone rolled out, "I don't know."

"Are we here to see the Queen?" John asked playfully, and not a moment later, Mycroft turned around the corner and into the sitting room.

Thea observed, "It appears so," and they dissolved into another fit of giggles. A brief thought flitted across her mind; she couldn't remember the last time they had ever laughed this much together. Mycroft flicked his tongue over his lips in a touch of impatience before stepping into the room, a tight and formal smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"For once, can you three behave like grown-ups?" he asked crossly, his arms unconventionally straight at his sides as his fingers twitched with irritation.

"Behave?" Thea scoffed as she crossed her legs and folded her arms, "We solve crimes like something out of a nineteenth-century fictional novel, Dr Watson blogs about it on a sensational media platform, and Papa forgets his trousers in Buckingham Palace. Your only hope for behaviour that's even _slightly_ more mature is with me, and I'm technically a teenager, Uncle." She half-smiled wittily as she said, "You have better chances of seeing a monkey tap dance."

Sherlock locked eyes with Mycroft, "I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft."

The eldest Holmes grimaced, "The hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock and Thea agreed, and John gave them a startled, incredulous glance before the conversation continued with no further explanation.

"Then onto the next order of business," Mycroft announced, picking up the stack of clothes on the coffee table between the sofas and turning to Sherlock, who looked at them with no intention of moving. "You sit in Buckingham Palace, the very _heart_ of the British nation." Then more sternly, his eyes burned into his younger brother and he commanded slowly, "Sherlock Holmes, _put your trousers on._ "

The detective shrugged, "What for?"

"Your client."

"And our client is…?" Thea asked as her father stood to challenge his brother.

The response came from the other side of the room, from a well-dressed gentleman with a long face and watery grey eyes, "Illustrious, in the extreme. And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous." John stood as he entered, almost as if he were back in his military days, and nudged Thea to do the same. The man was smiling charismatically, and the detective's daughter quickly deduced what little information she could. From his stance, intelligent vernacular, and tidy appearance, she reasoned he was high-born and came from a wealthy, well-educated household, though he'd been enrolled in public school. He liked riding horses, was an early riser, drank a lot of tea, and did not smoke. Since he was friendly with their client, Thea could only imagine he was the equerry of the royal family.

He looked to her uncle with a wide smile and greeted warmly, "Mycroft."

"Harry," Mycroft returned in kind, approaching the equerry and shaking his hand, then stood beside him to look at the residents of 221B. "May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?"

Harry seemed unfazed, "Full-time occupation, I imagine." Thea grimaced and her father scowled, but neither fired a response. The equerry turned to John and pronounced, "And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

John reached out to shake the equerry's hand, "Yes, hello!"

As they shook hands, Harry complimented, "My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

The good doctor startled slightly. "Your… employer?"

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch," he continued with a small amount of humour. John cleared his throat and pointed his eyes to Sherlock with a bit of smug pleasure. The equerry's gaze fell to Thea, and he smiled sincerely as he reached out a hand. "Miss Thea, it's truly a pleasure to meet you." She took the outstretched hand and he brought it to his lips before placing his other hand on hers. "Mycroft speaks enthusiastically of you, though the picture on his desk does you no justice. You're much lovelier in person. I trust we'll hear wonderful things about you in the future."

Thea ducked her head and smiled, "You're making me blush, you're too kind. Thank you."

Harry released her hand and regarded her father, his eyes becoming slightly colder even as his smile remained. He stepped to the opposite side of the coffee table as he said, "And Mr Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," Sherlock fired back before stepping past his daughter and John to look at his brother, "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He looked to the equerry and said pointedly, "Good morning." And he began to walk from the room, but as he did, Mycroft stepped on the trailing edge of the blanket Sherlock had been wrapped in. The blanket slipped from his shoulders to around his waist, where he quickly secured it with tightly-curled fists. Thea had moved to grab the sheet when it slipped, but with her father's quick reflexes, she now stood awkwardly next to her uncle. Her father's muscles tensed in fury when he could not pull the sheet from his brother's grasp, and Mycroft showed no signs of relenting.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!" the elder Holmes growled obstinately.

Thea took hold of his arm firmly and spoke quietly so the equerry and John might not overhear, "With all due respect, _you_ stood on _his_ sheet, and while I cannot condone his fashion choice, I'll remind you that you hold a highly esteemed position in the country and it would be a shame to lose it over childish behaviour while in _Buckingham fucking Palace_."

Mycroft refused to look at his niece as he burned holes in his little brother's back, but eventually, his eyes fell to the ground and he lifted his foot from the sheet. Thea released his arm and turned to grab the clothes from the table behind her. She walked to her father and held the clothes up to him. "We're to be engaged by the highest in the land. Please, for the love of God, put your clothes on before Uncle has an aneurism."

Sherlock glanced at her and took a deep breath before begrudgingly taking the clothes.

Sometime later, Thea again sat between John and her father, now fully clothed in his usual attire. He was resting leisurely against the back of the sofa with his arm draped across the pillows behind Thea. Across from them, Harry and Mycroft sat on the opposite sofa. Her uncle was pouring the tea and flashed a glance at Harry as he quipped, "I'll be mother."

Sherlock said contrarily, "And there is an entire childhood in a nutshell."

Thea elbowed her father harshly as Mycroft glowered at him before putting down the teapot. They shared a resolutely stubborn gaze, and the equerry attempted to dispel the tension.

"My client has a problem," he started modestly.

Mycroft clicked his tongue and continued, "A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother," he said it with a hint of sarcasm, "your name has arisen."

Sherlock's expression didn't change as he immediately asked, "Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr Holmes?" the equerry inquired with mild surprise.

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy," Thea replied with a half-smile, and Harry nodded once in understanding. She turned her eyes to her uncle, "I imagine this is of the highest security, and therefore, of trust?"

Mycroft's lips pulled into a tight smile. "You would be correct."

"You don't trust your own Secret Service?" John asked quizzically, his eyebrows gathering.

Thea chuckled as she looked to the doctor, "Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."

John bit back a smile, and the equerry turned to look at Thea's uncle. "I do believe we have a timetable."

Mycroft seemed to snap out of a trance and pulled the briefcase at his feet to his chest. "Yes, of course." He produced a large photograph and held it out to Sherlock. "What do you know of this woman?"

Thea watched as her father pushed himself from the back of the sofa to take the photograph, then leaned forward to examine it with him. It was a rather dark shot of a beautiful woman, the light casting shadows around her clear blue eyes, her mahogany hair coiffed in an updo. She was looking across the way, her red-painted lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something.

"Nothing whatsoever," her father responded without looking up.

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft drawled pretentiously, "She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"Wicked," Thea murmured with a smile, then louder she asked, "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler, professionally known as 'The Woman'."

John glanced at the photo before he questioned, "Professionally?"

The elder Holmes replied mysteriously, "There are many names for what she does. She prefers, 'dominatrix'."

"Dominatrix," Sherlock murmured as if deep in thought and Thea glanced up to read his expression. There was a touch of admiration in his eyes as he looked at the photograph.

"Don't be alarmed; it's to do with sex," Mycroft commented sardonically.

Sherlock and Thea immediately looked up at him, and her father snapped, "Sex doesn't alarm me."

His brother smiled and stuck his tongue in his cheek, "No, I'd think not." He glanced at Thea, and she felt her cheeks burn as both John and the equerry observed the Holmes trio engage in their battle of wits. Unfazed, Mycroft continued, "She provides – shall we say – recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." He went back into his briefcase and fished out a small stack of more photographs. "These are from her website."

Thea took the photos and sat back to leaf through them as Sherlock looked from the corner of his eye. They were classy, sexy photographs displaying Miss Adler in various positions. One photograph was of her, assumingly topless, biting a riding crop. Thea gave a small laugh and showed it to her father.

"At least you two have something in common." When he rolled his eyes, she continued leafing through with a wide grin. There was a photo of Miss Adler in a sheer lace dress with nothing underneath, her riding crop tastefully censoring parts of herself. In another, she wore nothing but black lace knickers, her back to the camera as she sat on her haunches with a thin chain trailing her spine; it showcased her perfectly accentuated curves marvellously. The last one featured her wearing only a silky black skirt, and she was laying on her stomach across a velvet chaise, her eyes pointed sensually to the camera. Thea could feel John's attention turning to the photographs, and she suppressed a large smile.

Sherlock looked to the equerry, "And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs."

Harry half-smiled ruefully, "You're very quick, Mr Holmes."

"Hardly a difficult deduction," Thea disagreed amicably, looking up to the men opposite her. "Pictures of whom?" John had taken a sip of his tea and was now leaning over to look at the photographs on her lap with furrowed brows.

The equerry glanced at Mycroft, who shared his hesitancy, before answering carefully, "A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Thea narrowed her eyes as John asked sceptically, "You can't tell us anything?"

The equerry seemed to be calculating how best to answer, but Mycroft looked at his hands and answered for him, "I can tell you it's a young person." John raised his teacup to take another drink as Mycroft continued, "A young _female_ person."

Sherlock quirked a half-smile as John swallowed his tea hard. Thea shared her father's smile as she observed the equerry's jaw tighten.

"How many photographs?" she asked.

Mycroft smiled tightly, "A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?" Thea pressed, and her uncle's jaw twitched. She placed the photographs on the table between them, as if reminding him of what was at stake. She normally would try to mollify Mycroft's sense of authority, especially when tensions between him and her father were high, but there was a certain satisfaction in seeing him in such a yielding position.

"Yes, they do," he responded stiffly.

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

He sighed. "An imaginative range, we are assured."

Thea, without glancing at John, realised he was still staring at her uncle with his teacup half-raised. She felt her lips curl in a grin as she said offhandedly, "Dr Watson, you might want to put that cup back in its saucer now." John shook himself from his daze and quickly did as he was told.

Her father gave a small, quiet chuckle before the equerry asked, "Can you help us, Mr Holmes? Will you take the case?"

Sherlock squinted at the man as he questioned, "What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten.'" He reached to grab his coat from the back of the sofa, but Mycroft's next words stopped him.

"She doesn't want anything." Sherlock turned his attention back to his brother curiously, his body still twisted to one side, "She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."

Thea crossed her arms and leaned back into the sofa as she watched the gears turning in her father's mind. He was looking out toward the windows behind his brother, "Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Oh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?" Thea jabbed him in his ribs again and he asked, "Where is she?"

Mycroft answered, "In London, currently. She's staying –"

But her father had draped his coat over his left arm and was standing to button his suit jacket, "Text me the details, I'll be in touch by the end of the day." Then in a flash, he was quickly walking away, "Off we go, John, Thea." As he turned the corner, John stood and nodded to the equerry sitting baffled on the sofa. Then he turned and followed Sherlock through the palace's corridors.

Thea and the equerry stood, and he asked her in bewilderment, "Does he really think you'll have news by then?"

She laughed and ran a hand through her hair, "No, I think we'll have the photographs."

He seemed unpleased with the answer and replied hotly, "One can only hope you're as good as you both seem to think."

Thea's smile faded and she ran her eyes over the man again, confirming her earlier deductions. Then she looked down at her uncle and said evenly, "We'll need some equipment, of course."

He nodded with a ghost of a smile, as if giving her permission for what she was about to request, "Anything you require."

Her eyes found the equerry again and she asked, "May I have a box of matches? Or your cigarette lighter, either will do."

Harry looked stunned and shook his head slightly, "I don't smoke."

Thea smiled sweetly and held out a hand expectantly, "No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer does."

The man glanced back at Mycroft nervously before reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out the heavy silver lighter. He placed it into Thea's palm and swallowed, "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Miss Holmes."

The detective's daughter raised an eyebrow. "My father and I are not the Commonwealth." Then she walked around the table and pressed a quick kiss to her uncle's cheek. "Good day, Uncle. I'll keep you posted."

He patted her cheek affectionately. Then she began to make her way from the room and he called after her, "Be careful."

"No promises!"

When she caught up to Sherlock and John further down the hall, Thea raised an eyebrow and flashed the lighter to her father. He half-smiled approvingly and nodded once. "So, we were right, then."

"Obviously."

John glanced between them and at the lighter in Thea's outstretched hand as she handed it to Sherlock. "Sorry, right about what?"

"His employer smokes," Thea revealed quietly, winking at the good doctor as she looped her arm through his. Then Sherlock led them through the palace's corridors, his thoughts circling The Woman.

* * *

The residents of Baker Street sat in the back of the taxi, Thea in her usual spot between her boys. They had been quiet in the moments since they'd left the Palace, but John broke his silence suddenly, asking, "Okay, the smoking, how did you know?"

Thea glanced at her father as he smiled and answered, "The evidence was right under your nose. As ever, John, you see but you do not observe."

"Observe what?"

Thea giggled, "The ashtray, of course!"

And as she said it, Sherlock pulled a crystal ashtray from the inside of his coat and showed it to John. The doctor joined the teen in laughing with delight, and the detective tossed it into the air, flipping it, before catching it safely and returning it to his coat pocket. He, too, chuckled.

And so they became the Queen's keepers.

* * *

 _AN: Hello all! So sorry it has been an age and a half. That was never my intention, I promise. I was in a bad place mentally and suddenly found it very difficult to write. I worked on this bits and pieces at a time, sometimes just a sentence a day, but as of a couple days ago, I feel much better! I hope you'll forgive my absence._

 _Anyway, I struggled a bit to find Thea's place in this scene so I hope it sounds alright! I also updated bits and pieces of Diamond in the Rough, if you'd like to reread that! As always, please leave a review, and favourite/follow for notifications of future updates!_

 _Much love to you all!_

* * *

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	6. Part 6

**_Part Six._**

At 221B, Thea leaned against her father's doorframe as he ripped through his wardrobe, trying on piece after piece of different disguises. John joined her from the kitchen after having sat down to read the newspaper, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets while watching the detective shuffle through his clothes.

"What's he doing?" he asked quietly to Thea.

"He's going into battle – has to have the right armour," she murmured, the edge of her mouth toying into a smile. They observed her father pulling on a high-vis jacket with an equally fluorescent cap. He looked over himself in the mirror before he pulled it off so hastily that it audibly snapped.

"No."

He pulled the cap off and frisbeed it to the top of his wardrobe, to rest among a small pile of hats growing there. Thea sighed and walked to his chest of drawers, pulling out a simple white collar before turning and stopping her father in his tracks. "Here."

He mulled it over for a moment before nodding once, "Yes, this will do." He touched her shoulder lightly, and almost distractedly, then swept from the room, breezing past the good doctor. Thea cocked an eyebrow in his direction and placed her hands on her hips, and John rolled his eyes in agreement.

* * *

A little while later, the three of them were sat in the back of another taxi, heading just South to Belgravia. Thea glanced over at her father and asked tactfully, "What's the plan?"

"We know her address," Sherlock answered plainly, and the doctor snorted from beside her.

"What, just ring her doorbell?"

"Precisely. Just here, please," the detective commanded to the cabbie, and the driver obediently pulled the vehicle to a side street. Sherlock paid the driver and motioned for the others to follow him into the small cobbled street.

As they walked, John looked over Sherlock's attire and called to him observantly, "You didn't even change your clothes."

Sherlock glanced back at him and replied, "Then it's time to add a splash of colour."

Thea's gaze had turned to the environment as her father stopped in the middle of the street, a strip of pristine white flats surrounding them. "We're not here, are we?"

Sherlock yanked his scarf from his neck and stuffed it into his coat pocket, "Two streets over. But this will do."

"For what?" she asked, crossing her arms. They stood in a triangle, with Sherlock and John facing each other and Thea acting as the waypoint between them.

Her father motioned to his face and directed his next words to the doctor, "Punch me in the face."

John shifted between his feet and cocked his head slightly as he blinked tightly, "Punch you?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, furrowing his brows and motioning again, "In the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear 'Punch me in the face' when you're speaking but it's usually subtext," John answered, and Thea sniggered at the dry humour in his tone.

"I'm inclined to believe most people hear that, Dr Watson," she agreed amusingly, then she turned to her father, "I could have a go at it, if you'd prefer."

But her father shook his head, "No, it needs to be John."

John scoffed, "Sherlock, I'm not going to hit you."

"Oh for God's sakes," the detective muttered as he looked up at the buildings, and before his daughter could even react, he threw a hard right hook at John, landing square in the jaw. John bent over, reeling in pain, as Sherlock shook out his hand and let out a breath to brace himself.

"Papa!" Thea exclaimed, bending to examine John. But the doctor was already straightening up, and without a word, returned the right hook to Sherlock's cheekbone despite being left-handed. Thea pressed her hands to her mouth as her father fell to the side, and John took the moment to pace a few feet away, clenching and unclenching his fist in what had to be immense pain. She crouched near Sherlock and helped him to stand, taking a look at his cheek where John had broken skin.

But as soon as Sherlock began to thank the good doctor for punching him in the face, John tackled him around the stomach and knocked him back to the ground, where they then fought for control of the situation. Thea half-shouted in alarm and stepped back.

"Knock it off, both of you! Stop it!" she cried, looking around nervously.

They found their way to their feet, and John immediately grabbed Sherlock from behind in a chokehold. The detective tried to pry away the arm around his neck, though it seemed to be in vain.

"Okay, John, I think we're done now!" he attempted to mediate.

"You'll remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier. I killed people," John replied viciously.

The detective's daughter pulled on his shoulder, attempting to wrench them apart. "You were a doctor, Watson!"

" _I had bad days!_ "

But Thea won in the end, pulling the army doctor from her father and standing between them. She watched them carefully and kept hold of John's arm. "Feel better?" When he reluctantly nodded, Thea placed her hands on her hips and walked a few steps away to ease the adrenaline in her veins, breathing deeply through her nostrils. "You two are _bloody_ outrageous…" She strode back to her father and examined his neck as he stood straight. "But it looks like you'll be alright. Best button up your shirt and put on your dog collar before we arrive."

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told, and when he was finished, he looked to her. She adjusted it slightly and patted it when she was satisfied.

"Perfect. You'd make an excellent vicar."

John had calmed down behind them and said to Thea, "Sorry – about – " He looked down the street as he cleared his throat and continued, "Got carried away."

He expected Thea to be upset, so he was surprised when she smiled. "Don't worry about it, Dr Watson. You're hardly the first, and you _definitely_ won't be the last." When John gave a hint of a smile, Thea pushed her boys toward the main road. "Come on, we've got a show to put on."

* * *

They arrived on the doorstep of Irene Adler's Belgravia residence, and Sherlock shook out his hair before blinking rapidly to produce tears. When he finished with that, he turned to Thea and silently asked for approval again.

"Hmm. Think of sad puppies," she suggested playfully, cocking her head.

John scoffed. "Yeah, I'm sure that has a massive effect on him."

"Fair point. Think of a world in which science has no societal value."

"Ooh, that'll do it."

Sherlock muttered, "Shut up," then turned to the home and rang the doorbell, shifting into his vicar persona. Thea took the opportunity to toss the heavy silver lighter from the equerry to John.

"You'll need this. Use it to set off the smoke alarms when the moment arises."

When John looked over to Thea, he saw her suddenly looking nervous, with gathered brows and wringing hands. Just as he was about to ask her if something were wrong, he realised she, like her father, had shifted into a character for the case. He half-smiled and tucked the lighter into his coat pocket.

"Hello?" a woman's clear voice called out to them from the intercom.

Sherlock became wide-eyed and panicky as he answered in a posh tenor, "Ooh! Um, sorry to disturb you. Um, I've just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they... they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Umm, please could you help me?"

After a brief pause, the woman suggested, "I could phone the police if you'd like?"

Through tears, he replied gratefully, "Oh thank you! Thank you! Could you, please?" He stepped back and held a handkerchief Thea had produced from her pocket to his cheek, "Oh, would you... would you mind if I just waited here, just until they come? Thank you. Thank you so much."

There was a buzz as the door unlocked, and they made their way inside, Sherlock leading the way. He blubbered another "thank you" inside the door at the housekeeper, then marvelled slightly at the interior of the foyer.

Thea and John followed, and the latter explained while motioning to Thea, "My daughter and I saw everything. I'm a doctor; do you have a first-aid kit somewhere?"

The housekeeper, a tall, slim, redhead with icy blue eyes made more poignant by a rim of dark eyeliner, raised one perfectly groomed brow to John and said crisply, "In the kitchen." She motioned for Sherlock and Thea to wait in the front room with a small, "Please," then gave a pouted smile to John as she led him to the kitchen.

The detective sat on the long sofa, his coat now along the back of it, as his daughter walked around the room, both examining it in similar manner. Thea cast a glance at her father, his eyes hard and mouth set again in typical fashion, and watched as he caught certain details of the room. It was a meticulously pristine room decorated in light gold, ivory, and blush tones, with a magnificent fireplace on one wall of the room and a sofa and two chairs on the other side. Sherlock caught his daughter's eye and held her gaze for a moment.

But not a moment later, there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, so Thea rushed to her father to check on his condition as he held the handkerchief back up to his cheek and snivelled.

"Hello. Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name," the voice called from the foyer, coming closer.

Sherlock sniffed and laughed a little in embarrassment as he looked toward the door, "I'm so sorry, I'm…" But his face changed, and Thea looked to the door.

And there stood Irene Adler, completely naked except for a pair of Louboutin's. Her lips were painted bright red, blue eyeliner sweeping across her lash-line to enhance the blue of her own eyes, and her hair was coiffed in a manner similar to the one she'd had in the first photograph they'd been shown. A smile toyed with one corner of her mouth. Thea found herself glancing over the woman's body in a moment of weakness.

She gave a short laugh and stood straight, a touch of appreciation in her voice as she mused, "Bloody hell." She walked to the back of the sofa, slightly to one side of her father, and pressed her hand to the spine of it.

Irene strode into the room and stopped directly in front of Sherlock, whose eyes never strayed from hers, and straddled his legs slightly with hers. "Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" She reached forward and with her manicured nails, took the dog collar from her father's shirt. She looked over it with satisfaction. "There, now we're _both_ defrocked." She lifted her eyes to meet his and smiled knowingly. "Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Thea's lips turned up at the corners as her father greeted quietly, "Miss Adler, I presume."

The woman cocked her head as her eyes traced the detective's features. "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" Then suddenly she lifted the white collar to her mouth and bit down on it suggestively. Thea's jaw dropped slightly, though her smile remained. She shifted her eyes to her father, though he was only looking at Irene in confusion.

"Right, this should do it," John called from the doorway, and Thea turned to see him, looking at the bowl of water in his hands so as not to spill it, coming into the room. She bit her lip to keep from laughing as the doctor looked up and, shocked, stopped suddenly. He looked back at the bowl, and when his eyes found Irene again, he was squinting slightly. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Irene, slightly annoyed by the interruption, took the collar from her mouth and stepped away from Sherlock, "Please, sit down." She turned and walked to the chair to Sherlock's left, sliding into it gracefully and crossing her arms and legs in a manner that concealed her breasts and sex. "If you'd like I could have the maid bring us tea?"

Sherlock replied plainly, "We had some at the Palace."

"I know," Irene smiled coyly.

Thea, thoroughly enjoying the scene playing out, said, "Clearly," and walked around the sofa to sit next to her father. But he and Irene only had eyes for each other, and a silence filled the room as water might fill a basin. Thea knew her father was trying to make deductions of the woman, but she was finding it terribly difficult to believe he'd find anything useful. She herself had already attempted it, and to make sure she wasn't losing her touch, she turned her eyes to John. Sherlock did the same.

He had worn his shirt for two days in a row, he'd used an electric blade instead of a razor, and judging the shoes he was wearing, he had a date planned for the evening. John frowned under their gaze, and Thea saw from the crease above his eyebrow that he still hadn't phoned his sister – despite Thea reminding him several times over the course of the week – and from the puffiness under his eyes, he had been out late with Stamford the night before. Thea and her father looked to each other, though her expression was more amused than anything. He frowned at her, clearly cross by the concept of not having an advantage over their opponent.

"D'you know the big problem of a disguise, Mr Holmes?" Irene asked as Sherlock's gaze returned to her. He was unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt so that it might not be so tight against his throat, and the woman leaned forward slightly. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?" the detective asked dryly.

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power," she quipped with a quirked eyebrow. "In your case, it's yourself."

Thea leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. "Actually, I picked the dog collar. What do you suppose that says of me, Miss Adler?"

Irene's eyes fell to her, and she pursed her lips, "Then _you_ believe the higher power is your father, Miss Thea. I'd say you 'worship' him, but that's a harsh word for it. I think 'love' is much kinder." When the detective's daughter didn't disagree, Irene looked to the army doctor, still standing uncomfortably at the doorway, " _Somebody_ loves him, anyway. Why, if _I_ had to punch that face, I'd avoid his nose and teeth, too."

John threw his head back and forced an ironic laugh before he became serious again and asked, "Could you put some clothes on? Anything at all." He looked at the fabric napkin in his hand and took it between his fingers, "Napkin, maybe?"

Irene nearly laughed, "Why? Are you feeling exposed?"

Sherlock stood and buttoned his suit jacket, "I don't think John knows where to look." He picked up his coat from the back of the sofa and held it out to the woman in the armchair. But she ignored him and stood, walking toward the doctor.

"I think he knows _exactly_ where." John rolled his neck and kept his eyes trained fastidiously on hers, restraining himself from looking any lower.

Thea leaned back into the sofa and laughed, "If _he_ doesn't want to, I'll _gladly_ indulge your sensibilities."

Irene sent a grin back to the detective's daughter and took the coat outstretched in Sherlock's grasp. "I'm not sure about your father."

Thea cocked her head and frowned, "If Papa wanted to look at naked women, he'd borrow Dr Watson's laptop."

"He does borrow my laptop," John objected.

"I confiscate it," Sherlock argued, going to stand by the fireplace. Irene was wrapping herself in the coat and looked to Thea.

"Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me – I need to know." She sat next to the teen and began taking off her high heels as she directed her question to Sherlock. "How was it done?"

"What?"

"The hiker with the bashed-in head – how was he killed?"

The residents of Baker Street looked to each other in confusion, and Sherlock closed his eyes briefly before answering, "That's… not why we're here."

"No, no, no," Irene agreed, "you're here for the photographs but that's never going to happen, and since we're here just chatting anyway…"

Thea curled her legs underneath herself and placed her arm on the spine of the sofa, resting her head against her hand, "That story's not been released to the public yet. How do you know about it?"

The woman glanced at the young girl and teased, "I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he _likes_."

A large grin grew slowly on Thea's face, and she looked to her father. "I like her."

John had sat down in the armchair to Thea's left and mulled over the comment, "And you like… policemen?"

Irene's attention turned back to the doctor and she crooned, "I like detective stories – _and_ detectives. Brainy's the new sexy."

Suddenly Sherlock incoherently blurted out, "Pozshunfthucar," which gathered everyone's attention, namely Thea's as she wondered, nervously, if her father was having a stroke. But he shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back as he pulled himself together and rattled off, "Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know."

Irene was leaning forward again, her hands clasped as her elbows rested on her knees. "Okay tell me: how was he murdered?"

Thea had stood up and walked to stand by her father, and her sapphire eyes burned with the intensity of a bright star as she held Irene's gaze and smiled. "He wasn't."

The woman furrowed her brows in disbelief. "You don't think it was murder?"

"We know it wasn't."

"How?"

Thea took a moment to walk idly around the fireplace, and her father walked in a path contrary to hers as if they were orbiting each other. "The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs we're looking for are in this room."

Irene blinked once and shook her head slightly, "Okay, but how?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up as he said triumphantly, "So they _are_ in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no one in." He and the doctor shared a significant look before John smiled and set down the bowl of water and napkin on the table. Then he stood and obediently walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Thea watched as Irene sat up straighter and watched the door suspiciously. She paced the room again and started, "Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart, and one car."

The woman on the sofa looked startled as she said pointedly, "Oh, I thought you were looking for the photos now."

Sherlock's eyes roamed the room as he tutted, "No, no. Looking takes ages. We'll find them, but you're moderately clever, and we've got a moment, so let's pass the time." He paused and his gaze found Irene again. "Two men, a car, and nobody else. The driver's trying to fix his engine. Going nowhere."

Thea passed in front of him, her arms folded across her chest, and picked up where he left off. "The hiker's taking a moment, looking to the sky. Could he be watching the birds? Drawing the landscape?" she asked doubtfully, stopping near the windows. "Any moment now, something's going to happen. What?"

"The hiker's going to die," Irene answered, and Sherlock made a hissing noise between his teeth as he paced the length of the fireplace.

"No, that's the result. What's going to _happen?_ "

"I don't understand," the woman finally said, and there was a hint of childish sadness in it as if she'd been scolded.

"Try."

"Why?" she fired back.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and faced the mirror, looking back at her through it as he snapped distastefully, "Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and _think_."

"It's the new sexy," Thea teased from the windows, raising an eyebrow enticingly in Irene's direction.

Irene's gaze turned from her to the detective as she finally responded, "The car's going to backfire."

"There's going to be a loud noise," Sherlock corrected.

"So, what?"

Thea walked past her father and stopped next to the armchair John had sat in earlier. "Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance…"

And just then, the smoke alarms in the residence began to beep persistently. Sherlock and Thea watched as panic glistened in Irene's iridescent eyes, and her attention snapped to the mirror above the fireplace. The father and daughter shared a victorious look before Sherlock turned to the mirror.

"Thank you. On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." He ran his fingers under the mantelpiece until he felt a switch, which he pressed before stepping back slightly from the mirror as it began to rise, revealing a safe.

" _Really_ hope you don't have a baby in there," Thea quipped before calling out toward the foyer, "Okay, Dr Watson, you can turn it off now."

But the alarms continued, and Sherlock's eyes flashed to his daughter's before he looked to the door. "John, she said you can turn them off now!"

"Give me a minute!" came the muted reply from the other side of the door. There was the sound of a small pop, and then the alarms went silent.

Thea sat along the armrest of the chair as her father tried to crack the code to the safe, his eyes darting over the numbers with keen observation. "Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used – that's quite clearly the three – but after that, the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six-digit code. Can't be your birthday – no disrespect but clearly you were born in the late eighties; the eight is barely used, so…"

Irene stood, shorter now without her heels, and watched Sherlock with crossed arms. "I'd tell you the code right now, but you know what?" The detective turned his head to look at her, "I already have." Then she gave him a wide-eyed look and taunted, " _Think_."

Everything happened at once, as it usually did when they were on a case. There was a loud eruption as the door to the room burst open, and in walked a yellow-haired man with a pistol aimed right at Sherlock. He was quickly followed by two other men with the same pistols, one of which was pointed at John as he was pushed into the room. Thea had stood up at the sound of the door being kicked open, and she now shot a panicked look to her father while he assessed the situation.

"Hands behind your head," the blonde man shouted, and Sherlock and his daughter were surprised to hear an American accent behind the words, "Keep them still."

"Sorry, Sherlock," John apologised as he was led to stand next to Irene, her hands behind her head obediently. Thea was grabbed by the man closest to her, and she made a small noise of alarm as she was dragged next to John, her hands forced to cradle the back of her head like the others.

"Papa," she started warningly, but the man that had grabbed her put his pistol to the back of her head and she swallowed the words she'd planned to say next. Then she and John were forced to their knees with heavy hands on their shoulders, and the blonde American turned to the woman in Sherlock's peacoat.

"Miss Adler, on the floor."

The man behind John shoved her to her knees alongside the army doctor and Thea. When the detective's daughter looked up to her father, she saw a flicker of rage cross his features, but it was gone by the time the lead American looked back at him.

"Don't you want me on the floor, too?"

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man and thought aloud, "American, interesting. Why would _you_ care?" His gaze flickered toward Irene but didn't linger long.

"Sir," the American ordered, his tone harbouring more irritation than before, "the safe, _now_ , please."

"I don't know the code."

"We've been listening. She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't."

The American was unfazed by his response, quickly pointing out with a perfect argument, "I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming _you_ didn't, Mr Holmes."

John called angrily from his knees, "For God's sake, _she's_ the one that knows the code. Ask _her_."

Thea sucked in a breath and replied quietly but clearly, "Irene's a cunning woman, Dr Watson, she'll also have a code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm."

"Smart girl," the American complimented dryly. "I've learned not to trust her for that reason."

"Mr Holmes doesn't –" Irene endeavoured to say, but her attempt to mediate the situation backfired.

"Shut up. One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship," the man replied menacingly, and it earned him a vicious look from Sherlock. But the American held his gaze with an almost android-like character, suddenly saying, "Mr Archer. On the count of three, shoot Mr Holmes's daughter."

Thea's felt her heart stop as the man behind her adjusted the grip on his firearm, and her hands began to shake as she was transported back to the pool, Moriarty's gun pressed to her ribcage. John tried to protest and was immediately greeted by the click of the hammer being pulled back on the gun to his head.

"No point in quarrelling, Dr Watson. These men will do anything to get what they want," she consoled bitterly but calmly, though it did nothing to alleviate the anxiety that coursed through her veins. She briefly wondered how many times she would have to face death before she'd finally break, or better yet, actually _die_.

Sherlock's jaw tightened in cold fury, and he met his daughter's gaze with steeled eyes, "I don't have the code."

"One."

" _I don't know the code._ "

"Two." The hammer clicked back into firing position. Thea turned her eyes to the floor; she couldn't bear looking at her father any longer.

Sherlock's voice became panicked as he pleaded with the blonde, "She didn't tell me, I don't know it!"

The man with the handgun pointed at Irene's heart didn't even flinch. "I'm prepared to believe you any second now."

The world slowed as the detective glanced to Irene, who seemed to lower her eyes as if trying to communicate something. Then the American counted, "Three" and Thea gave a small gasp in anticipation of the bullet as the gun pressed further into her cold skin.

" _No, stop!_ " Sherlock suddenly shouted, and the blonde American held up a hand to stop Thea's executer. She felt her pulse in her head as her hand covered her mouth to quiet the small shaky breaths she exhaled to keep herself steady. The very air in her lungs seemed to have stilled, and John let out a stream of quiet curses. When she was finally courageous enough to look up, she could see the gears spinning in her father's mind as he turned to the safe behind him, slowly and steadily so as not to provoke their American friends. He lowered one hand to his side, the other hovering over the number pad. Then, with the American watching closely, he tentatively began entering sets of numbers.

 _32_.

 _24_.

Then, after a pause, _34_.

And the safe gave a small beep, followed by a satisfactory click. Thea half-smiled in relief as the hammer on the gun to her head was released back into position, and next to her, John sagged a little on his knees, letting out the breath he'd been holding in.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," the blonde, suddenly friendly, congratulated, "Now open it."

Twisting the handle that would open the safe, Sherlock glanced back at Irene, and after a moment, exclaimed urgently, "Vatican cameos!"

Immediately, Thea and John threw themselves to the floor, and as Sherlock opened the safe, he ducked down to avoid the bullet that fired from the gun inside, activated by the tripwire. The bullet buried itself in the chest of Mr Archer, Thea's would-be executer, and Sherlock spun to grab the stunned blonde American's pistol from his hand by the barrel. He slammed it over the man's head, knocking him out, and flipped the gun in his hand so that he was holding it by the grip. Irene had taken the moment of confusion to elbow her captor in the groin, rendering him doubled over and in the perfect position for someone to disarm him. Thea had brought herself back to her knees and reached over John's body to grab the handgun hanging loosely in the man's hand. She quickly got to her feet and pointed it at his back, keeping her finger off the trigger but ready to fire if the need arose. Irene had backed away to the wall, her eyes locked firmly on the gun in Thea's hands.

"D'you mind?" Sherlock asked his daughter with a hint of humour.

"Not at all," she replied, and with one quick motion, she wound her arm and slammed the barrel of the pistol over the man's head, effectively knocking him into unconsciousness. She noticed from the corner of her eye that while she did, her father had stealthily reached into the wall safe and grabbed its contents.

John, taking the gun from Archer's side, stood and motioned to the body with a grim frown on his face, "He's dead."

"Thank you," Irene said suddenly, her eyes still on her captor's slumped form, "You were very… observant."

"Observant?" the army doctor repeated with a crease in his brows.

"I'm flattered," the woman continued, and Thea quirked an eyebrow at her father.

He glanced at his daughter before replying a hurried, "Don't be," as he twisted off the silencer from his stolen pistol. Thea took some time to do the same, trying to keep her smile from showing. There was something there, something so human that her father might not have noticed it yet, but it was enough for her to know that she should not stand in its way.

" _Flattered_?" John echoed again, a little louder this time.

"There'll be more of them." Thea stepped past the doctor and motioned with her head towards the foyer. "No doubt they'll be keeping a close eye on the building. They'll know something's gone wrong, and if we don't hurry we'll have more Yanks to deal with." She led him back to the front stoop after he'd stuck Archer's pistol in the back of his jeans, and once on the pavement, she glanced down both ways of the street. John followed her gaze.

"We should call the police."

"Yes."

Then she aimed her pistol at the sky and fired five consecutive shots into the air. In the distance, there was the sound of tyres screeching against the pavement as someone came to an abrupt halt, presumably in fear. Thea gave a satisfied smile to John, whom had pressed a hand up to one of his ears against the blasts of the gunshots, as she walked back towards the house, "On their way."

He groaned and looked down the street as she had moments before, "For God's sakes! Bloody Holmes family…."

"Hush, Dr Watson, it's quickest." When they were back in the foyer, Thea touched his arm lightly to stop him in his tracks, "We need to find out where they came in from – go on upstairs, I'm going to grab my dad." He nodded and started up the marble staircase, and Thea entered the sitting room. "Right, that'll be the knighthood you've always wanted, Papa."

Sherlock was flipping the notorious camera-phone in his hand as she walked in, and Irene was staring at him with a squared jaw and burning eyes. Thea paused at the doorframe for a split second but she eventually chose to stand behind the closest armchair, slipping her pistol into the waistband of her jeans.

"That's mine," she said tightly, extending her hand to him. He ignored her and instead switched it on, which led him to a four-digit security lock.

"All the photographs are on here, I presume?" he perceived, looking over the screen as if trying to figure out the unlock code as he had for the safe.

Irene shrugged slightly, "I have copies, of course."

Thea crossed her arms as she made a noise of amusement, "No, you don't." They both looked to her and she quirked an eyebrow at the woman. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them." She made a small, sarcastic, sweeping motion towards the bodies littering the floor between them. "Given the state of your sitting room, I think it's safe to say you don't _just_ have photographs on there."

Irene's jaw twitched in anger as she gazed at the younger girl, and she stepped closer to Sherlock, "Regardless. That camera phone is my life, Mr Holmes." Her eyes met the detective's, though she wasn't pleading with him anymore. She seemed to understand it wouldn't work. "I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection."

"Sherlock!" John suddenly called from upstairs, and the tension in the room only seemed to absorb the call to action.

Sherlock held the phone out of Irene's reach as he coolly fired back, "It _was_." Then he swept from the room with Thea at his heels.

"Whatever's on there is clearly important to multiple international governments," she started as they climbed the stairs, following the sound of John's voice.

"Obviously."

"So, what we're _not_ going to do is pull a 'missile defence' thing where we try and use it as bait, _right_?" she pressed, and her father threw her a pointed glare. Below them, Irene was following them upstairs.

"Honestly, Thea."

"Well, if you would stop doing stupid things, I wouldn't have to make sure you don't do even _stupider_ things!"

The room they entered was dark, with black and silver brocade wallpaper that both Sherlock and Thea recognised as the backdrop from Irene's website photographs. Most of the furniture was stark white in contrast, giving juxtaposition to the space. They found John crouched over the maid's body near a vanity, checking her vitals, as they walked in. He glanced up at them as he placed two fingers to the inside of the redhead's wrist, "Found her like this, they must have come in through the bathroom there." He nodded behind him to the bathroom attached to the bedroom, where a cool, late summer breeze fluttered past the gossamer curtains and into the room from an open window. Thea stepped to the bathroom and examined the window and its ledge. From the corner of her eye, she could see Irene walk into the room and stand anxiously to one side of the maid's unconscious form.

"It's alright, she's just out cold," the army doctor reassured her. Thea walked toward the bedroom again, stopping at the doorway and leaning against the frame.

"Well, God knows she's used to that." The woman's tone changed suddenly as she suggested, "There's a backdoor. Better check it Dr Watson – and you should probably bring Thea with you." Her eyes locked onto the detective's daughter with a small measure of respect. "Seems she's handy with a firearm."

Thea glanced to her father as he stood near Irene, and he nodded to her slightly. She straightened and shrugged. "Might as well. Come along, Watson." She made her way from the bedroom and started for the stairs, glancing behind to make sure the doctor was with her. He gave her a tight-lipped grimace, and she let him pass her to lead her to the kitchen.

"For a moment, I thought we might have an easy case," John bantered with only slight humour, checking the backdoor's lock as Thea examined the rest of the kitchen. "I don't know whether to be relieved or worried that it's turned out _not_ to be."

She chuckled and said, "If it were easy, Papa wouldn't have agreed to take it."

And there was a loud thump from above them, as if something quite heavy had dropped to the floor.

With a hint of concern crawling up her spine, Thea jogged from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs, craning her neck to shout up, "Papa?" When there was no reply, she dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and raced toward the bedroom. She could hear Irene's voice, but only hers. With a small amount of caution, she pulled the pistol from her waistband and held it out in front of her as she slowly entered the room. Irene was standing above her father's sprawled body as he fought to sit up, her riding crop pressed to his cheek. His helpless eyes caught hers as she rushed towards him, and Irene made her way casually to the bathroom.

"Papa!" Thea screamed, falling to her knees at his side. She let the pistol fall to the floor as she took her father's face into her hands, fear seeping into every molecule of her body. Her wide eyes found Irene as the woman grabbed a cord from outside the open window. " _What have you done?!_ "

"He'll sleep for a few hours," Irene replied dispassionately, turning to watch the young girl. "Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse."

Thea's eyes caught sight of the syringe nearby and grabbed it, the panic in her throat now, "He's a recovering drug addict, you idiot! What the fuck have you given him!" She examined it closely, but the woman at the window didn't seem troubled.

"He'll be fine, I've given it to loads of my friends."

But Thea's heart had clenched suddenly as she recognised the contents of the syringe. She stood as John entered the room, immediately starting for Sherlock's disoriented form, and held it up to Irene with malice, "Where did you get this?"

Irene cocked an eyebrow, "An associate."

"This is benzodiazepine, it was used on me in April when a certain consulting criminal kidnapped me. Now, _where in the hell did you get this_?" Thea's tone had turned deadly, and she was gripping the syringe so tightly that she was beginning to bleed from where her nails bit crescent-shaped scratches into her palms.

The woman looked at her, surprised, and almost answered, but she thought better of it and instead tumbled backward out of the open bathroom window. Thea rushed to the ledge and looked down below, where Irene was now climbing into a waiting black vehicle and being driven away. Just outside, the detective's daughter heard the sirens that signalled the arrival of the police. John was calling her father's name in an attempt to keep him conscious, but she knew it was in vain. Her father would slip into a deep sleep, though with his stubbornness and tenacity for all drugs, she was sure that it would be more of a horrible state of in-between.

She took deep breaths to squelch her anger and steady her rapidly-beating heart then started toward the balcony overlooking the foyer. Down below, the police had begun to stream inside, and at the sight of her, they started up the stairs. She nodded toward the bedroom, and the world seemed to slow as they called for an ambulance. She pulled out her mobile and called Lestrade, letting him know what had happened. Within ten minutes, he was at Irene's residence, ready to take them home.

John and Lestrade worked together to get Sherlock up and into the back of the detective inspector's car while Thea was obligated to stay behind and give statements. After they were satisfied, Thea and John made for Lestrade's car, Thea in the back with her father's head on her lap and John up front with Lestrade, as they made their way back to Baker Street.

The sky had changed to a brilliant orange- and pink-hued masterpiece and Thea tenderly brushed her father's hair from his face as he fought between their world and the world of dreamless sleep in a fit of senseless mumbles. She leaned her head back against the seat of the car and watched the city go by, her tired limbs finally catching up to her. After a moment of admiring the skies, she pulled out her mobile and opened her texts with Matthew.

 _I've got a hell of a story for you, love. -TH_

* * *

 _AN: Hello again! Super long chapters - yay! I had thought about breaking this into two parts, but I couldn't ever find a spot that I was satisfied with. Plus these are just ridiculously long scenes, so it's better to get them out of the way early! I'm not too happy with the ending of this part, so I might go back and edit it later. I'll let you know if things change!_

 _I've started a new, full-time job so updates might be a little slower coming out. I have weekends off, so if things work out, that's most likely when new chapters will be released._

 _As always, leave a review letting me know what you think so far, and favorite/follow for updates! Love you all!_


	7. Part 7

**_Part Seven._**

She was reading in her father's armchair, and John was in the kitchen making tea for the two of them when the indecipherable shouts came from Sherlock's room. The doctor glanced to her with raised eyebrows before setting the kettle down and walking to the detective's bedroom. Thea closed her book and uncurled her legs from under her as she listened carefully to what seemed to be a small argument.

Then her father clumsily called, "Thea!" and she stood and set down her book on the seat of the armchair. She hurried to his room and found John awkwardly rubbing the back of his head as Sherlock stumbled cumbersomely around the room, as if looking for something. At the sight of her, he seemed slightly relieved.

"Thea," he slurred, trying to keep his balance, "Where is she?"

"Who, Papa?" she asked kindly, though she knew whom he was referring to.

"The woman – the _Woman_ woman!" he stumbled slightly as he asked, his brows creasing as he struggled to keep his thoughts straight.

Thea took his arm to steady him and replied, "She got away." He turned and gripped the windowsill before looking out, as if searching for her. "She hasn't been here." Then he seemed to turn too quickly for his body to keep up, and he fell heavily to the floor, straining to pull his body across the hardwood. She made a noise of pity before she and John kneeled to help him. "C'mon, back to bed, Papa." He resisted them slightly but with enough coaxing on his daughter's part, Sherlock let them settle him back in bed.

Thea sat on the bed as she turned to John. "I can take it from here, Dr Watson. I'll let you know if something's wrong."

He nodded and squeezed her shoulder in comfort before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. And there, hanging on the back of the door, was her father's peacoat.

She felt her stomach clench uneasily, but her father groaned beside her and she pushed away the burdensome thoughts before turning her attention to him. He was lifting his head to look at her, trying to shift in the sheets to roll onto his side, facing her. She helped him to adjust as he muttered incoherent phrases, and then he settled with his face buried into his pillow, his body contorted strangely though he uttered no complaint. She brushed his wild hair from his face and his eyes searched for her through bouts of rapid and tight blinking. When they did, he seemed to relax slightly.

"I'll be fine," he murmured quietly and mostly into his pillow.

"Of course, you'll be fine," she affirmed soothingly, and she laid down next to him and rubbed tiny circles on his upper back. "But I'm here anyway." He blinked once at her, and she gave him a small smile. "You used to lay with me when I was sick. You didn't know how to make soup, so you'd just give me tea and biscuits and hope for the best."

He mumbled in recognition as a smile pulled at his lips, and then he closed his eyes. Thea watched him fight the sleep for a moment, and she started humming one of his violin compositions to ease his inner battle against the drugs. When he was finally asleep, she felt herself relax.

And suddenly there was the sound of a woman moaning in the heat of orgasmic pleasure. Thea sat up and looked toward the sound, seeming to come from her father's coat. Curious, she stood and fished through Sherlock's coat pockets until she found his phone, now lit up with a message from an unknown number.

 _'_ _Til the next time, Mr Holmes._

Though it had no name attached, Thea could practically hear the Woman's sultry tone wrapping itself around her, suffocating her. In anger, she quickly went to delete the message, but she stopped herself just short of it. She took a deep breath and swore under her breath before shutting off the phone and setting it on the nightstand beside her. She leaned against the wall and ran her hands through her hair as she exhaled a harsh breath. With a glance at her father's sleeping form, Thea wondered if they were getting involved in something over their heads.

But she trusted her uncle, despite it all. She had to believe he'd never put them in harm's way. Mycroft wasn't one to show fondness in traditional forms – he opted for spying on them to make sure they kept safe. But that was their normal. It was to be expected.

With a sigh, Thea walked back to Sherlock's bed and slipped in beside him. She rubbed small circles into his back until she felt her eyelids grow heavy, and before she knew it, she fell into a deep sleep beside her father.

* * *

Thea scooped another forkful of her breakfast into her mouth as her father flipped through the morning's newspaper, completely recovered from his drugged state. Her pompous uncle stood unhappily next to the table, just over John's shoulder as the doctor read from another newspaper with a faint smile etched into the lines on his face.

"The photographs are completely safe," Sherlock assured his older brother from behind the newspaper, not lifting his eyes from it.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," Mycroft quickly retaliated dryly.

Thea rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair, "Irene's not interested in something so trivial as _blackmail_. She wants protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can I do anything while she has the photographs? My hands are tied."

She scoffed and muttered, "She'd applaud your choice of words, Uncle."

When the elder Holmes scowled at her, John laughing quietly, Sherlock inserted calmly, "You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

John looked up from his paper and added, "Though not the way _she_ treats royalty." He punctuated his words with a sarcastic smile up at the human embodiment of the entirety of the British government.

Mycroft returned the smile with a tight-lipped, equally humourless smile, though it didn't last long as the sound of an orgasmic sigh perforated the air, turning all of them into statues. John and Mycroft shared twin frowns as Thea pressed her fingertips to her forehead. Her father was putting down the newspaper and trying to appear nonchalant.

"What was that?" John asked quizzically.

"Text," the detective answered in a blasé tone.

"But what was that _noise_?"

But Thea's father had already stood and walked to the phone from the small table beside his chair, his eyes skimming over the screen. Thea took the opportunity of her uncle being suddenly interested in her father's texts to grill him.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Uncle, before you sent the three of us in there?" she started, sitting back in her seat and glaring at the tall man, "CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess." As he opened his mouth to answer, she held up a finger and glowered, "And be careful how you answer, as I suspect Gran and Grandpapa would be very keen to know exactly how much danger their sons, specifically their eldest, put their only granddaughter in."

John turned and glanced up at the elder Holmes brother as he gave a sarcastically enthusiastic, "Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft."

Sherlock came to sit back at the table as Mrs Hudson bustled from the kitchen, placing a full plate of food in front of the detective. She placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and said sternly, "It's a disgrace, sending your little brother and your niece into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft snarled in a rare flare of his temper.

" _MYCROFT!_ "

" _UNCLE!_ "

" _OI!_ "

The residents of 221b glared up at the personification of entitlement, and he glanced around at them with a look of distaste before it quickly faded. He cleared his throat, straightened, and cocked his head toward Mrs Hudson in a motion of contrition. "Apologies."

The landlady nodded once and moved back toward the kitchen, "Thank you."

Thea and John looked back down at their plates as Sherlock picked up his newspaper, and the detective threw over his shoulder, "Though do, in fact, shut up."

" _Papa_ ," Thea hissed through her teeth as she kicked him under the table, her eyes narrowed in his direction. He shrugged and was about to answer when another moan filled the room.

The detective's daughter tightened her jaw and reached for her tea as she asked tightly, "That noise is a bit rude."

Sherlock flashed his eyes ironically at her as he picked up the phone from the table. "Awfully contradictory of you." He glossed over the text before turning his next words to his brother, "There's nothing you can do and nothing she _will_ do as far as I can see."

"I can put maximum surveillance on her," Mycroft countered.

But his niece snorted. "Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is 'TheWhipHand' – quite predictably."

He rolled his eyes as Thea stuck her tongue out at him, "Yes, most amusing." His phone began to ring, and he fished it from his pocket. His eyebrows furrowed, and he muttered a quick, "Excuse me" before turning from the room and pressing the mobile to his ear. "Hello."

Thea and her father watched him suspiciously before sharing a knowing look. He'd said hello as if he'd been expecting the call, and he was now talking in a low voice. It was an important call, and with her uncle's line of work, it usually meant something big.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John asked the detective suddenly, and Sherlock broke from his trance to look at the good doctor.

"Sorry, what noise?"

" _That_ noise – the one it just made."

"It's a text alert. It means I've got a text."

"Hmm," John hummed in dissatisfaction, "Your texts don't usually make that noise."

Thea stood and walked her plate to the kitchen, setting it on the counter as Mrs Hudson gave a quick wave before bustling back downstairs to her own flat. " _Somebody_ got hold of Papa's phone and apparently, as a joke or a flirtation, personalised their text tone."

"So every time they text him…" John mused, but right on cue, another sigh filled the room and he raised his eyebrows in wonder. Thea sighed and began washing her plate with a small amount of aggravation.

" _Honestly_ , Papa."

Her father had picked up the newspaper again and muttered in defiance, "It's hardly my fault, Thea."

"And yet, I see no initiative to change it. How strange."

John interjected, "I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock raised the newspaper to obscure his face as he replied quietly, "I'll leave you to your deductions."

The doctor gave a satisfactory smile and began reading his own newspaper again, and Thea sat in her father's armchair as she pulled out her own mobile to browse through her social media.

"He's not stupid, Papa. No point in acting as if he hasn't got a clue," she scolded inaudibly.

"Where do you get the idea that I think he's stupid?" he fired back just as softly, and she threw a very sardonic look his way. But her uncle was coming back into the room, and their conversation melted away.

"Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." He ended the call and stuck his mobile in the inside pocket of his jacket. Sherlock and Thea examined him with no small amount of scrutiny.

"What else does she have, Uncle?" Thea questioned, cocking her head at him. "The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs of a member of the royal family."

Her father stood and faced Mycroft, "There's more. _Much_ more." When her uncle didn't reply with anything but a tightened jaw, Sherlock stepped closer so there were no more than mere inches between them. Thea stood, ready to defuse any argument that might arise, "Something _big_ is coming, isn't it?"

Mycroft's expression remained unchanged as he said dangerously, "Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this."

John and Thea glanced at each other with worry lines creasing their brows, but they exchanged no words. Sherlock locked eyes with his brother and challenged, "Oh, will I?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You _will_."

But Thea's father shrugged and turned away. "We'll see."

His brother sighed and looked to his niece, "Please be sure he stays out of trouble. I'd hate to have to send my spies after him to babysit."

She shrugged and stuck her hands in the back pockets of her trousers, "I can't make any promises. If a case is interesting, there's no stopping him. You know that as well as I do."

Mycroft's jaw twitched but he made no further comments on the issue. Instead he announced, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

Sherlock had picked up his violin and now turned to face his brother, "Do give her my love." Then he put the violin to his chin and began playing "God Save the Queen", earning him a stern look from Mycroft and plastering a grin on John's face. Thea suppressed her smile and motioned to her uncle that she would walk him down the stairs.

As they reached the first landing of the stairs, Thea turned seriously to her uncle and stopped him on the stairs, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall. "You never answered my question. Did you know what we were walking into yesterday? And spare me the long, complicated answer – yes or no will do just fine."

Mycroft sucked on the inside of his cheek and looked at the wall just to her right. "I had suspicions, but I couldn't confirm anything. We knew she had… sensitive information. We just didn't know _whose_ information."

His niece nodded once and motioned for him to continue down the stairs ahead of her. She opened the door for him and before he stepped over the threshold, he mentioned, "Oh, yes. It seems Mr Hemingway is looking for a new flat. My sources inform me that Kensington is a wonderful neighbourhood and has a few flats available by the end of the month." He flashed a knowing smile toward her and she shook her head in surprise.

"Kensington?! Uncle, Hem's _barely_ a year out of uni, I don't think Kensington is within his limits, especially on his own."

"Will he be on his own?" he quizzed, and she opened her mouth to respond, but couldn't think of anything witty. The thought of moving out of Baker Street and in with Hem hadn't even crossed her mind. It wasn't an unwelcome idea, just something she'd never considered. Then her uncle touched the side of his nose and walked out to the pavement, leaving her with another eye-opening thought. She closed the door behind him and quickly ran through a list of pros and cons for moving in with Hem. She was still thinking of them as she walked up the stairs, though in her heart she knew she wouldn't be able to leave Baker Street for some time. What she and her father had in that little flat was more than she had ever hoped to have with him, and she wasn't going to give it up so readily, not even for Hem.

Thea walked through the door and watched as her father set his violin on the table as John continued reading the paper. The pretty picture didn't last long; John glanced down at his watch and stood, humming in the back of his throat.

"Sorry, I've got to dash. I'm supposed to be meeting Sarah," he hurriedly said, and he walked to the side table beside his armchair and grabbed his wallet and mobile.

Sherlock made a noise of disappointment and thought aloud and offhandedly, "She's not interesting."

The doctor paused as if he might have offered a counter against the statement, but instead he waved it away and continued out the door, muttering angrily under his breath. The detective's daughter crossed her arms and looked sternly at her father, but he shrugged as if she were making too much of a fuss of the whole thing. Just as she was about to scold him, the orgasmic sigh filled the room again and she clenched her teeth.

"I don't trust her."

Her father furrowed his brows and leaned over to grab the phone from the table. "I thought you liked her."

"I've changed my mind. She had benzodiazepine in her possession and used it against you." She crossed the room and sat in John's armchair as she rifled through a nearby book, trying to find something to distract herself. "I think she's connected to Moriarty somehow."

Sherlock made a small noise of amusement and sat across from her in his own armchair. "You're jumping to conclusions, Thea."

But she slammed the book into her lap and huffed, "I'm _not_. Moriarty used the same drug against me less than six months ago. I don't think it's a coincidence."

"Moriarty doesn't have a cornerstone on the market of benzodiazepine; it's readily available to anyone with access to medical professionals and their stockrooms," Sherlock argued with a stern tone, eyeing his daughter with a small hint of reprimand, "Ms Adler has proven she can please a wide variety of officials – I'm sure one of those authorities is well within the medical sphere."

She looked at the mantle and crossed her arms over her chest, thinking it over. "Fine, maybe you're right. But I still think she's hiding something."

"Of course, she is," Sherlock admitted, gripping the armchair tightly and letting a half-smile pull at his lips, "Which is why your uncle Mycroft is preposterous to think I'd actually let him have all the fun in beating her at her own game."

Thea let herself smile and flashed her twinkling eyes at her father, "So long as it doesn't involve a bedroom and any sort of bondage. I'll leave that as your personal pursuit." She laughed as Sherlock rolled his eyes at her and sighed, then she stood to go to her laptop at the table. She sat and pulled her hair into a loose bun to keep it off her neck before gleefully saying, "Right then. The game is on!"

* * *

 _AN: Hello, hello, hello! So sorry this installment took so long - I hate doing filler chapters and I've been absolutely swamped at my new job so I've had little time to actually sit down and write. Hopefully, I'll be able to take more time through the weeks to continuously work a little bit at a time in the upcoming chapters. I think they'll be coming a lot more quickly since they're all chapters that I've been itching to write! So thank you for your continued support, I know I'm a tad unreliable and I appreciate your positive feedback so much!_

 _To all my new followers, welcome! I'm so glad you've stopped to give my little story some love. I know this chapter isn't all that great but I promise it's all better from here!_

 _As always, favorite/follow for notifications on future updates, and don't forget to review if you have a moment or have thoughts on the story! I yearn for your reviews. :) Love you all!_


	8. Part 8

**_Part Eight._**

Winter in London had been one of Thea's favourite things in the entire world from the time she was a child. She loved the crisp and biting air that permeated every pore of her exposed skin as her breath crystallized in small clouds. She loved the sudden change in the city's atmosphere, the quick and expectant pull of the torrent of holidays. The snow came seemingly overnight and likely wouldn't disappear until late March, though she didn't mind in the slightest. The snow was her favourite part of it all. When she was small, her uncle would take her out, once a year, and they would stroll through the many small streets of the city, just talking and enjoying the sights. He would take the time they had together to educate her on a hardy variety of subjects. He liked to talk about the government, politics, and the endless benefits of charisma and networking; she preferred their discussions of all things based in literature. But she learned much more from her Uncle Mycroft than she would have ever learned in her small classrooms back home in the countryside.

She'd lost count of the number of times he'd tried to enrol her in boarding schools, but her grandmother's answer had always been crystal clear: Sherlock forbade it. At first, Thea couldn't understand why her father wouldn't allow her to get an education at some of the finest institutes throughout Europe. But it made sense as she grew older, and finally the pieces fell into place when Sherlock invited her to move in with him. First, he wanted her to have a normal childhood, not one spent missing her friends and family as she lived miles away, perhaps even countries apart from her loved ones. But she also came to realise that she didn't need a stuffy education from a prized institute. Thea had inherited her family's natural ability to soak up knowledge similar to a sponge. Anything she might have learned in school she could easily teach herself now, perhaps even within hours.

Of course, when she came to live with her father, he enrolled her with the finest arts school in the city, with some help from his brother. She couldn't help but think it was one of his many attempts to apologise for leaving her for so many years.

She also couldn't help but admit that it had worked, even just the slightest bit.

But, like many things Thea once found to be the best life had to offer, winter in London soon came to be nothing more than a hurtful reminder of the person she was before.

And the person she could never be again.

* * *

Thea grimaced at her father as he stared blankly back at her, his features unreadable. There was no way of telling how he was faring, if he were having any more success than she or if he were just as clueless on the solution to their predicament. They sat across from each other in the middle of the room on the wooden chairs from the sitting room table, their hands behind their backs with their wrists cuffed in gleaming, new handcuffs. An errant curl slipped from behind her ear, and she attempted to blow it away from her eyes, her cheeks growing hot as she became slightly more flustered. She'd thrown her mane into a haphazard lopsided bun atop her head when the game had begun, but it'd slowly become more undone as time had passed. She was also beginning to swelter a bit in her heavy maroon jumper and woolen socks, especially with the heat that the fireplace was emanating.

"This is hopeless," Thea growled, feeling her pick break between her fingers, " _Dammit._ "

Sherlock made a noise of amusement, "Lestrade wouldn't have given us the latest in inescapable handcuffs if he didn't believe we were up to the challenge."

His daughter huffed and turned her eyes to Hem, standing at the fireplace with his fingertips pressed to his lips with curiosity. "Help a girl out, yeah?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile as he reached behind him and grabbed a fresh pick from the mantle. He walked to her and placed it amid her awaiting fingers, grazing his along her arm and sending a shiver up her spine. She glanced at him with a wink and focused more on the cuffs with the vicelike grip on her wrists.

Hem had been away for a week in Belgium to track down a notable artist he'd been chasing after for the better part of the year, and upon his successful, early return, he decided to surprise Thea at Baker Street. He'd come in only to find her and Sherlock in their chairs, engaged in a heated argument. As luck would have it, they'd just broken their picks and found themselves in quite the predicament without someone (a certain doctor, perhaps) to alleviate their troubles, raising tensions between them. Without questioning their motives, Hem had followed his girlfriend's directions until he found the extra stash of lockpicks hidden in a carved-out book. Now, he was stuck with them until one of the Holmes' detectives broke free of their imprisonment. It was a race to the finish, though Thea's incentive was notably more invigorating.

"I have the most exceptional feeling that this is breaking the law," Hem mused as he crossed his arms, his eyes flickering between the hands behind the chairs.

"Three of them, actually," Sherlock answered plainly, his eyes still on his daughter, "But only if you're in police custody. Handcuffs carried by any officer on the street are infamously flimsy and easy to escape given proper preparation – several corporate manufacturers have come to find there is a tidy little market available in the breach where the government skimps on law enforcement."

And then suddenly there were two little clicks as both Holmes' unlocked their handcuffs. They simultaneously showed each other their handcuffs, and each furrowed their brows at the other.

"You used the Reichev method?" Thea scoffed, and her father's eyes narrowed.

"Obviously. The Westfield method-" he motioned to her cuffs, "-is unreliable on its own, never mind when tackling handcuffs of this complexity," Sherlock argued with distaste.

"And yet, I beat you by fractions of a second. Clearly not as unreliable as _some_ think."

"You were exactly two hundredths of a second behind me, therefore the Reichev method, and I, win."

Thea pulled her hair from its capture and shook it out before flashing her eyes to Hem, whose jaw had dropped in the span of the conversation that had passed between the detectives, and obstinately asked, "Hem, you're our witness. Who shall be crowned the winner?"

Sherlock's clear pools of blue found his daughter's boyfriend and held his gaze with no clear indicator of emotion. Hem closed his mouth and swallowed as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets anxiously, feeling the intensity of both their gazes. He suddenly felt out of place in the eclectic flat, with wall-to-wall hints of chaos, as he was dressed in a professional, mahogany-toned tweed vest over a dark seafoam-coloured button-down, which he wore concealed under a suit jacket a shade darker than his vest. His dark-washed denim jeans were semi-formal yet casual, and they rested perfectly atop his copper-toned dress shoes.

But even as the nervous thought crossed his mind, his eyes fell to Sherlock's crisp suit, and he felt that maybe he wasn't as out-of-place as he had previously thought. After all, Thea's father was the definition of a prodigy, with a methodology that seemed otherworldly at times. Chaos of the mind did not negate an arranged appearance.

Then Hem realised with acute awareness that he hadn't answered and quickly cleared his throat as his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. "Erm, I'm not nearly quick enough to determine a clear winner here. Looked as if it were a draw to me." He shrugged. "I'm impressed all the same."

The detective let a half-smile pull at one corner of his mouth, and he stood to retrieve the keys for the cuffs from the kitchen counter. "Astute answer." He unlocked his own cuffs before turning to his daughter, who had followed him to the kitchen, and unlocking hers. She rubbed her wrists and tossed the cuffs on the counter before rushing to Hem. His arms wrapped around her waist as her hands framed his face, pulling him in for a long-overdue kiss. Sherlock averted his gaze and acted as though he were busying himself with an experiment, his hands skimming over vials and beakers with sudden interest.

When they detached themselves, Hem ran his thumb over Thea's cheek and smiled down at her with all the affection in the world. "Missed you, dove."

She leaned into his touch and sighed contentedly at the nickname he'd taken to calling her, breathing in the familiar smell of vanilla rum. "Missed you too, Charming."

"Your devotion to each other is intrinsically inspiring," Sherlock muttered quietly as his eyes scanned the contents of a small vial rolling between his forefingers, and Thea rolled her eyes before turning to him with her arms folded across her chest.

"Jealousy is a terrible beast, Dad," she shook her head and turned up one corner of her mouth, "But if you're seeking relief from boredom, may I suggest paying Miss Adler a visit? I'm sure she has any variety of ways to… _indulge_ your senses."

Her father flashed a quick, stern look in her direction, but Hem furrowed his brows. "Do you happen to be talking about Irene Adler?"

Thea and her father immediately locked eyes on him with their identical cerulean seas of mystery, shining now with intense inquisitiveness, and she immediately became serious as she asked, "How do you know her?"

Her father raised an eyebrow at her and grilled, "You discuss all of our cases with him, are you saying you _didn't_ discuss the Belgravia incident, of _all_ cases?"

She shrugged and unfolded her arms. "Uncle gave me instructions to leave out some details, including names, given all parties involved. For some reason, Her Majesty doesn't want all of her family's secrets spilling from the cracks." Then she deadpanned with a soul-burning glance at her father, "Can't imagine why."

He seemed to mull over the answer as Hem reached out to touch Thea's arm, his face saturated with surprise, "Sorry, did you just say, 'Her Majesty'?!"

"Long story. Yours first." Then she sat along the armrest of John's chair and gazed up at her love with eyes that dripped in sensuality. Hem couldn't help but think that she always appeared immensely sexier when it came to her work. He pushed the thought away as she asked, "Irene Adler. You know her?"

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and shrugged. "I know of her, mostly. She's been a guest at some of the events I attend for my work. She just so happened to be at the gala I attended in Belgium in hopes of tracking down my elusive artist. I saw her across the room; it looked as if she were being escorted by an older gentleman, some real estate mogul. I think his name is Charles Fairborough?"

In a heartbeat, Sherlock had set the vial down and made his way to the sitting room table, where he now stooped over his laptop. Thea stood and made her way next to him, putting her weight into her arm as she rested her palm flat against the table top as Hem watched with no small amount of interest. Her father's lithe fingers had already typed in the gentleman's name, and by the time Hem had come to stand on Sherlock's other side, the man's picture had loaded on the page.

Hem nodded and pointed to him, "Yeah, that's the bloke. Very loud, drank way too much by the time dinner was served. It's pretty typical amongst his crowd, really."

Thea nodded as she looked for any trace of familiarity in the man's features. He was older, as Hem had described, with very little grey hair to cover his shiny head. His jowls drooped with the accustomed onset of age, and his colourless eyes gleamed with the privilege of a man who hadn't had to work vigorously to achieve his goals. On his right hand, raised as he put a champagne glass to his lips, was a heavy, gold ring inlaid with a large ruby. There were markings around the gemstone, but from the picture, it was hard to make out the engravings. But her father seemed satisfied all the same.

"Charles Fairborough – made his money in real estate," he confirmed before flashing a small glance of gratitude at Hem. "It explains why I haven't been able to locate Miss Adler. It appears we've both been busybodies."

Thea cocked an eyebrow and suppressed a laugh. "Though her notion of 'busybody' work is a little more literal than yours, I'd imagine."

Sherlock straightened and buttoned his suit jacket with a glare in her direction, "Thea Anne." Then he had turned for the door and plucked his coat from the back of it. "I'll be following up on this new information, don't wait up for me."

But his daughter pouted and crossed her arms. "Without me? You always leave me behind when things start to pick up pace after trails have gone cold."

"I've no objection to this," Hem inserted, shrugging when his girlfriend looked at him with mild surprise. "I worry for you; I just want you safe, dove."

She melted slightly at his concern, and her father half-smiled as he looped his scarf around his neck. It was late November, and the air in London had shifted dramatically in the last few weeks. Bundling up to a severe degree was now a necessity if one wished to stray from the cold bite of suffering. "A true gentleman. My sincere thanks, Matthew." Then he nodded at his daughter and said gently, "This is hardly a worthy lead to go in with full force. I'll just be a few hours." He crossed the room and pressed a gloved hand to her cheek. "You're my assistant. If something goes sideways, I promise to let you know." Then he gave a curt nod to Hem and dashed out the door, mobile in hand, as he tossed over his shoulder, "Be smart."

She felt her cheeks burn, but she pushed away the embarrassment and turned to Hem as she wrapped her arms around his waist. She leaned her head against his chest as his arms curled around her shoulders. "Promise you won't leave me again. I was a miserable wretch, just ask John."

Hem chuckled deeply, and it reverberated through his chest and into her body, "I'm quite sure of that. I seem to remember several moping phone calls." He began stroking her hair in comfort, letting his thumb run along the spot under her ear where he knew she loved his touch.

"It's not my fault you're always disappearing on me. I feel as if I hardly see you."

She could practically hear him smiling, "Well, you're in luck, because as it happens, I've been promoted."

Thea pulled back with a wide grin, her eyes gleaming, "Really?! Hem, that's fantastic!"

He boasted proudly, "Came with the promise that I won't have to travel as much, and a very agreeable boost in salary. So, I can safely say that I am yours for three-quarters of the year, dove, and having a place of my own is far more attainable now." Then he put his finger under her chin and tilted her head up to his, then pressed his lips to hers in a deep kiss. She returned it with zeal before taking his hand and backing towards the stairs, a sensual smile playing with the soft of her lips.

"Let me reward you for all of your hard work then, handsome."

And without a word, Hem picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to anchor herself to him. " _God_ , I've missed you." He carried her up the flight of stairs with ease, where they escaped to a world far from the one they'd known, one that erupted with feathered caresses, a familiar tug of longing, and the exuberant satisfaction of fulfilling desires that had before been long left to the imagination.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello all! You've no idea how happy I am to finally finish another small part of this installment. I know I've been so unreliable with writing and I apologise from the bottom of my heart. I've been insanely busy at work as we've had multiple events going on that required all of my attention, but now that the summer is dying down, I should have a lot more time to work on this story! It's been literally torture not having time to write - I've had so many ideas bottled up in my head that are just bursting to come to life! So please don't abandon this just yet, I promise good things are on the horizon._

 _This chapter was meant mostly to establish Hem a little more in the presence of 221B. Hopefully, you can see him growing with and shaping the story. The beginning was heavily influenced by an episode of the American version of a modern-day Sherlock Holmes,_ Elementary _. Please leave any suggestions or critiques in the reviews, I'm hungry for your thoughts! As always, review, favourite, and follow for emailed updates! Much love to you all!_

 _/_

 _A/N 2: Hello again, I was super unhappy going back and rereading this bit, so I went ahead and redid a lot of it! I'm still not entirely happy with it but I'll leave it be for now. Just thought I'd let you all know!_


	9. Part 9

**_Part Nine._**

It was late at night, and Thea was lying in bed reading her copy of _Paradise Lost_ when the pounding on the downstairs door began. She sat up, startled, and held her breath as it paused for a long moment, but when it began again with more intensity, she threw off her covers and headed down the stairs. John and Sherlock were out solving a small case that hadn't quite piqued her interest, and Mrs Hudson was next door with her "male acquaintance". She took every small precaution and grabbed a cricket bat she'd learned to keep in the kitchen after the _Blind Banker_ case, as John had taken to calling it in his blog. Her footsteps were silent on the stairs as she navigated the creaking parts with ease, and when she reached the door, she took shallow breaths to avoid being too loud. She peered through the door's peephole, her heart quickening. But Thea was surprised to find that there wasn't anyone there, and with great caution and her senses heightened, she opened the door. She let out a small yelp of surprise when she found Hem sitting on the stoop, his back leaning against the tall, wrought-iron fence.

"Hem! What are you doing here at this hour?" He looked up at her, and she realized with a start that he was injured. His forehead was bleeding from a large gash over his right eyebrow, his left eye was slightly swollen and blackened, and he had a large bruise already forming on his jaw. " _My God_." She set the cricket bat near the door and stepped out to the stoop. "Come here. Up with you."

She helped him to stand and walk up the stairs to the flat as he leaned heavily against her, taking small steps as he gave small protests. She lead him to a chair in the kitchen, and he sat down roughly while holding the left side of his ribs, "It's nothing - really, Thea."

"Shut up and let me have a look at you."

He did, and she examined each of his wounds with a surgeon's precision. He watched her, his stormy eyes never leaving her face as her mouth turned down at the corners in a pretty frown. She pressed along his body with firm but tender touches, feeling for an array of symptoms. He tried not to voice his pain.

"Whatever you've done, you've done it proper," she finally sighed as she straightened and crossed her arms. Then she reached over to a nearby cabinet to grab a first-aid kit that she and John kept fully supplied in case Sherlock ever did anything stupid - which was often enough to warrant its existence, "There are at least two broken ribs, and that gash on your forehead looks deep enough that it might need stitches." She set to work about cleaning him up, her brows still knitted, "What happened? Why didn't you call me when you were in a spot of trouble?"

Hem shrugged, immediately regretting the movement as he groaned in pain, "It's not important."

"Clearly it was," she scoffed as she searched for a cloth, dampening it at the sink when she found one. "You wouldn't have fought back if it wasn't."

He didn't need to ask how she knew that; he clenched and unclenched his bloodied fists as he tested how sore he was. He could feel every joint aching in obstinance and grimaced, "Long story."

She was standing in front of him, having been patting at the deep wound on his head in an attempt to clean it, and she straightened to look sternly at him, her hands on her hips. He refused to meet her gaze. "If you don't tell me, I'm going to have to call Lestrade. The detectives at Scotland Yard should be able to figure it out."

"You don't believe that."

Her jaw twitched, and he smiled a little knowing he'd hit a weak spot. "Yeah, alright. I don't. But my father could."

Hem finally let out a breath and shook his head, "That's not necessary." He watched her tenderly pat his forehead with the cloth, a worried but focused crease in her brow. "I got into a fight with some men in Greenwich. I was trying to meet with a…client, but he was less than willing to negotiate on the terms we wanted."

Thea cocked an eyebrow at him as she put antiseptic on the wound above his eyebrow, causing him to hiss in pain, "Sorry. A _client_ did this? What is he, some sort of art fanatic?"

He gave a short laugh and immediately sucked in a sharp breath as a flash of discomfort racked his body, "You could say that. It was more of a favour for my uncle. He needed a buyer for a piece he'd come across."

"I was unaware you had an uncle in the area," she said conversationally as she carefully attempted to close the wound with butterfly closures. "Are you close?"

"In a manner of speaking. Mostly just in proximity."

"Oh. Mother's brother?"

"Lucky guess." She smirked with a satisfied hum.

A comfortable quiet settled over them as Thea set about cleaning his hands of the dried blood that was caked in the creases of his skin. He watched as she methodically scrubbed in small circles, her brilliant eyes lasered in on the task. An errant curl was framing her face, bouncing back and forth as her hands worked, and there was something so perfect about her at that moment, from her concentration to the kindness of her hands as she cared for him, that a sudden intense feeling came over him. She stood to wet the cloth again, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, catching her by surprise.

"I love you."

Thea's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but a small smile formed on her lips as she relaxed, warmth spreading through her cheeks. "I'd rather hoped so."

But Hem shook his head with urgency, "No, you don't understand. I'm _in love_ with you, Thea Holmes. I'm completely enchanted by you." He pulled her closer to him and wrapped his arms around her waist, keeping her anchored to him. "It wasn't supposed to happen, but I wake up each day wondering how you'll change my life in the span of just twenty-four hours. You're my first thought in the morning and my last thought as I fall asleep. Hell, you've taken over my dreams. As soon as I knew I was in trouble tonight, all I could think of was that I might not see you again, and it tore me up inside. You've put a spell on me, Thea. I never thought I could feel this strongly for anyone and yet... You've changed me in ways you couldn't understand." He bowed his head, leaning it against her as if asking for penance. She rested one hand on his head, the other on the back of his neck. She sensed there was something devastatingly important about this moment, but for what reason, she could not fathom.

"Hem…"

"I'll always protect you," he said quietly but more firmly, "Whatever storms may come, I won't let harm come to you."

Thea let the words sink into her, feeling a tingle in her skin and bones as they reverberated off the walls of her mind. Then she kneeled in front of him, pressing a hand to his cheek. His eyes were closed, his head still bowed. "Matthew." His eyes opened and found hers. "I love you. Now and to my last breath."

For a second, there was nothing more to be said, and he pressed his lips to hers. When she deepened the kiss, he groaned, and she immediately pulled away, half-laughing and half-sighing. "Let's get you to St Bart's, yeah? If anything, for pain medication."

He nodded, a lopsided smile gracing his lips as he said, "Ah, yeah, I could go for some morphine right about now." She laughed again with more vivacity, and he basked in the sound of it before saying tenderly, "Thank you, dove."

She smiled at him as if he were all the stars in the sky, "I'll always be here to take care of you. Now come on - the morphine awaits."

* * *

 _A/N: Hello again! Another filler chapter, but I've been holding onto this scene for almost a year now and I was dying to share it with you all! I absolutely love this scene and all it encompasses - it's probably my favourite that I've written! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do._

 _As always, favourite, follow, and review! I've reached quite the small following on this series and I'm eternally grateful! Thank you all for reading, I appreciate all of it. Much love to you all!_


	10. Part 10

_**Part Ten.**_

"Hand me that hook there, Watson," Thea commanded to the army doctor as she held the string of fairy lights in place at the corner of the living room window. He looked around and located it before handing it to her, admiring the lights as she finished pinning them up. She stepped down from the chair and placed her hands on her hips as she looked at her handiwork around the flat. It was Christmas Eve, and she'd been spending the day readying 221B for the party she and John had planned for the evening. She'd strung garland wrapped in lights upon the mirror above the fireplace, as well as a strand along the mantle itself. All throughout the flat, she'd curled coloured fairy lights along the walls, hanging them in the windows, along the bookshelves, and even in the kitchen. She insisted on a real Christmas tree this year after Sherlock had refused them in the past, and so it sat near the smiley-defaced wall, decorated to the nines in white lights and dazzling as glass ornaments caught the twinkling lights of the room. From it emanated the intoxicating aroma of pine.

Thea went around the room as she lit small candles that diffused rich smells of cloves, cinnamon, and hints of orange peel that reminded her of the joyful season. It was still fairly early in the evening, and she didn't expect guests to arrive for another half hour at the least. John disappeared into the kitchen as he stirred up the pot of mulled wine they'd put on, and Mrs Hudson pulled beautiful mince pies from the oven, the last of her cooking endeavours for the night.

"They smell wonderful," Thea grinned as she stepped into the periphery of the kitchen, expunged of her father's woeful experiments and the table covered in a spread fit for a feast, "Everything's perfect, Mrs Hudson, I can't thank you enough."

The elder woman placed the pies on a cooling tray and waved her hands at the young girl with a crinkled nose and pursed smile, "It's no trouble, I'm pleased to help! It's been a long time since I've been able to cook for a Christmas party; it brings back old memories." She took the porcelain cup of deep red wine outstretched in John's hand and brought it to her lips before giggling a bit in surprise, "Oh, that's lovely. That small bite of clove is just right."

Thea winked at the elder woman, "Glad you like it, Mrs H."

John had wandered into the living room to get the fire in the fireplace going and looked up at the two women as he asked, "Tee, would you mind giving me a hand with this?"

Thea felt her lips pull into a smile as she put down her own teacup and went to kneel by his side. "'Tee'? That's new."

The army doctor cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the wood. "Yeah, well, erm. I just thought, it's been almost a year since I've lived with you, we're friends, friends give each other nicknames… You call me 'Watson', after all."

"That's your name, Watson."

"In any case."

"I like it," Thea nodded slightly, tucking kindling and twigs between the logs. "It's a good nickname."

The comment seemed to lift a weight off his shoulders, and he relaxed as he sent a quick smile her way. A few seconds later, he struck a match and carefully poked it into the heart of the small pile they'd built, and they felt the heat rise from the fire as it quickly spread to consume the kindling. Thea stood and brushed her hands together as John stood to adjust his jumper.

"Right, that should be everything," she hummed happily.

"Are you sure you're not forgetting something?" a voice asked behind her, and she turned to see Hem with presents piled in his arms.

John stepped toward the younger, taller man and grabbed a couple of the wrapped boxes. "Let me help you, Matthew." Hem gladly accepted the help as they both tucked the presents under the tree. As soon as his arms were free, he turned to Thea and wrapped her in them as she collided with him.

"Now you three can't open those until Christmas," he joked as he kissed her head, and she looked up at him and pouted. Her eyes briefly ran over the scar on his forehead from his row in Greenwich. It hadn't needed stitches, but it was taking its time healing, as shown by the thick silvery appearance it bore.

"I've never been one for following the rules."

He swept a few unruly curls from her face and agreed, "Undoubtedly."

She pulled from his embrace and leaned down to examine the gifts, the ever-curious sapphires gleaming as she scanned for hints as to the contents, "They'll be easy enough to deduce anyway."

Hem seemed to realise this quite quickly and his smile was replaced with a frown as he pleaded in a small voice, "Please don't, it took me ages to think of good gifts for John and your father."

Thea straightened and waggled her eyebrows playfully at him before helping him out of his coat. She folded the heavy wool over her arm as he straightened his navy jumper, complementary to her thick, plaid emerald skater dress. She'd paired the dark dress with a bright red lipstick and a perfectly pinned and complicated chignon at the nape of her neck, though errant curls continued to frame her face. She hung the coat up and grabbed her teacup of warm wine from the table, leading Hem to the kitchen to serve him a drink as well.

"Your parents really don't mind your spending the holidays with my eclectic conglomeration of what _could_ be called a family?"

Hem leaned against the kitchen wall and shrugged, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets. "Not at all. I'll be going to visit them this week anyway. Our holidays are normally very quiet, private affairs. It's refreshing to have some shift in tradition." He took the teacup she extended to him, a crooked smile lacing his lips. "Unfortunately, it seems that when I break from tradition, I make sure it's in a brilliant fashion. Who would've guessed I'd spend it with two of the best detectives in the country?"

" _Just_ the country?" she teased with a hint of disappointment.

"Well, I've never been to Canada. Who knows what brilliance they might be hiding under their frozen tundra of ice and forgiving façades?"

Thea laughed unreservedly and knocked him playfully with her shoulder as she led him back to the sitting room, sneaking a small mince pie as she passed the table. Hem sat in her father's armchair and pulled her into his lap, John sitting opposite them in his own chair. The doctor glanced down at it.

"Why haven't we gotten another armchair for you?" he wondered aloud, sipping on a small pour of scotch that sloshed around a large, perfect cube of ice.

"Papa couldn't practice his swordplay with another armchair in the room. It'd be a tragedy to lose my source of entertainment, especially when he takes up the broadsword. Don't take away my fun, Watson," she half-chastised, and she heard Hem mutter, " _Broadsword?!_ " incredulously under his breath.

And at that moment, her father made his way into the room, one hand behind his back in a poor attempt to hide something. "And here I thought you just liked stealing John's armchair for the pure solace of comfort." He nodded at Hem and gave a stiff but agreeable greeting. "Happy Christmas, Matthew. I'm glad you've decided to join us tonight."

Hem patted Thea's back, and she scooted off his lap as he stood to shake her father's hand, "Happy Christmas, sir, I wouldn't have missed this for the world." The detective took the young man's hand for a half second before facing his daughter as his expression melted into one reminiscent of fatherly affection.

"May I steal you away for a moment?"

She nodded and followed him to the loveseat across the room. He sat perfectly straight as she relaxed into the sofa. Hem had followed John to the kitchen, and there was laughter as Mrs Hudson fussed over him. Then her father took a deep breath, as if he were nervous.

"Happy Christmas, Thea," he said with anxiety laced with warmth, and from behind his back emerged a black box no bigger than a tablet, wrapped with a single gold ribbon tied to perfection. Thea slowly smiled and placed her teacup on the coffee table before taking the box. She carefully untied the ribbon and let it fall in her lap in a delicate heap as she lifted the lid to the box. Her breath caught in her throat.

Inside was a small but beautiful leather-bound notebook, her initials embossed in gold lettering. "It's wonderful. It'll be perfect for taking notes at crime scenes."

"And for all of your journalistic endeavours," her father enthused quietly in his baritone as he leaned into the back of the sofa, his arm draped across the spine. Then he nodded towards the notebook, "Open it."

Thea picked it up and set the box beside her, then opened the front cover. Inside was her father's looped scrawl, inscribing, _For the girl who wants nothing, I have given you an empty world. Fill it with your dreams, your passions, and your heart. -SH-_ "Dad, I don't even know what to say."

He hid a small smile, "There's more still."

She furrowed her brows and flipped through a few pages before she fell upon a dainty gold necklace, neatly tucked between the pages. The pendant was a small polished deer with a fawn beside her, enclosed in a delicate circlet. The dots along the backs of the deer were diamonds, glittering in the light of the fire and fairy lights. "It's stunning, but I don't understand."

Sherlock held out a hand for it and she passed it to him. He touched it lightly as he gazed upon it, before answering, "Gwen bought this shortly before you were born, when she started to fall ill more frequently. She wanted to give it to you on your fifth birthday. I lost it when you were a child, but I found it in the spring when you freed her from the prison I'd built around her in my mind palace. She'd thought of you as her little fawn and wanted to give you something that reminded you of her every day. It's entirely my fault that I've kept her from you this entire time."

Thea reached out and touched his arm gently. "It was heartbreaking. I didn't expect you to ever tell me about her." He held out the necklace and she took it gratefully.

"She'd have loved what you've done here," he complimented, looking around the room. Her eyes followed his. "I'm not just talking about the decorations. She'd be immensely proud of your accomplishments."

Thea ducked her head as tears burned behind her eyes. "I've never even met her and I still long for her, especially around the holidays. It's strange to miss someone you've never known."

"I know."

They were quiet for a moments, then he reached over to help clasp the necklace around her throat. It sat perfectly between her collarbones, glinting in the light. She touched it and thought of her mother before standing. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Whatever red wine you've got stashed away for the holidays."

She smiled. "Can't keep anything from you, can I."

"Never."

* * *

Sometime later, the flat was filled with the tinny sound of Sherlock playing "We Wish You A Merry Christmas", his eyes keeping keenly on the strings of the violin. Thea sat in Hem's lap at the kitchen table, her arm looped around his shoulders as her other hand held his, resting on her knee. His other arm was wrapped around her waist, and his thumb traced small paths over her hip. Lestrade stood at the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, while Mrs Hudson was perched on Sherlock's armchair, watching the consulting detective with happy fascination.

As Sherlock finished the song with a fanciful flourish, Lestrade whistled out in appreciation and Mrs Hudson clapped tiddly.

"Lovely! Sherlock, that was lovely!" she crooned, and John appeared beside her with a small cup of tea to help sober the poor woman. "I wish you would've worn the antlers."

The consulting detective sketched a small bow to his audience and replied softly, "Some things are better left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson."

Thea stood and walked into the living room to clear the table beside John's armchair of small plates. Hem was close behind to help. "I tried to convince him, but he'd said he'd rather wear a hideous Christmas jumper. Of course, when I offered one, he turned that down, as well."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her before setting his violin into its case. "John has already taken up the mantle of humiliation, there's no reason to further double the discomfort in the room."

The army doctor gave a tight but not unpleasant smile to the detective. "I'll let that slide in the spirit of the holiday."

A young woman with a dark updo appeared at his elbow with a tray of hors d'oeuvres in her hands and a pursed smile on her lips. She held it out to Sherlock tentatively, but he shook his head and responded politely, "No thank you, Sarah."

Thea could see the woman's smile fall, and she grimaced as John turned to his new girlfriend and tried to remedy the situation with a nervous chuckle, "Oh no no no, don't mind him, he's not good with names."

But Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, no, I can get this." The woman put the tray on the table beside her and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at the detective rather grimly. "No, Sarah was the doctor, and then there was the one with the spots…" He was tracing his hands through the air as if marking a mental map of John's clumsy love affairs, "And then there was the one with the nose, and then…. Who was after the boring teacher?"

Thea exhaled sharply through her nose, "Papa!"

The woman cleared her throat and responded icily, "Nobody."

"Ah, Jeanine! Process of elimination," Sherlock said casually, and John pressed a hand to her back to lead her away. Thea handed the plates in her hands to Hem and gave a small grateful smile before turning to walk to her father.

"That was rude," she chastised quietly, raising a precise eyebrow at him. "You should apologise; Watson is keen on her, it'd make a good impression."

"Dunno why," Sherlock shot back quietly, his eyes intent on hers, "It won't last. They're not compatible."

"He's _happy_. There's a difference."

"So you admit I'm right."

The detective's daughter sighed and crossed one arm over her ribcage as her other hand played with the pendant of her necklace. Her eyes flitted slightly to the couple, chatting with Lestrade now. "She's…. high maintenance. He can't love her the way she wants to be loved and doted upon. They'll end things eventually, but for god's sake, just get through the night without insulting everyone, would you?"

He didn't respond, only pursed his lips slightly, but then he glanced over her shoulder and muttered, "Oh, dear lord."

Thea turned and was delighted to see Molly standing in the doorway, engulfed in a heavy wool coat and her hands weighted down with bags of gifts for everyone. Her hair, which Thea had never seen out of its ponytail, was beautifully sculpted into a half-up, half-down fashion with beautiful waves cascading down her back. At her right temple was a marvellous crystal brooch that sparkled in tandem with her giant, dangling earrings. The detective's daughter smiled and called out, "Molly! So glad you could make it!"

"Er, it said on the door to just come up," she started nervously, and Thea waved away her worries.

"Of course, you're perfectly fine. Watson, can you help me with these?"

The doctor nodded and set down his drink before helping Thea take the presents from the mortician's hands. As they set them around the tree, Lestrade helped the woman out of her woollen coat, and almost whistled as she slipped her arms from the sleeves.

"Holy….Mary!" He was smiling in appreciation as the mortician nervously fiddled with her hands and the chunky bracelet around her thin wrist. She was in a slinky black dress with beaded straps and a neckline that cut straight across the top of her bosom. A thick white band circled the neckline in stark contrast. She smiled anxiously.

"Are we having our Christmas drinkies, then?"

Thea smiled and pulled her towards the kitchen. "Of course! What would you like, we've got a hearty variety." She saw from the corner of her eyes that Sherlock was sitting at the dining room table, his eyes fixed on John's laptop.

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it," Mrs Hudson quipped. Thea laughed and shook her head as Molly pointed to the same red wine that Sherlock had chosen.

"That's quite horrible, Mrs H," she started, reaching for a nearby wine glass, "Watson's nice most of the time!"

The army doctor raised his drink in appreciation at the young woman as she poured a glass for Molly. Hem was at the kitchen table, his eyes roaming over the multitude of food selections. She handed the glass to Molly before asking, "Molly, have I introduced you to my partner?" She tugged on his arm and pulled his attention to the mortician. "This is Matthew; Hem, this is Molly Hooper. She helps us on cases when called to the occasion."

Hem grinned and leaned forward to peck Molly's cheeks. "Happy to finally meet you! Thea talks of you all the time."

Molly seemed pleasantly surprised at this and gave a shaky chuckle, "Oh gosh, I hope it's only good things!"

They moved to join the others in the living room. Hem sat at the table opposite Sherlock and wrapped his arm around Thea's waist as she stood next to him. She lightly traced her hand across his shoulder, just enough to pull a few goosebumps from his skin. Her father was looking at the screen of the laptop with quiet fervor, his eyebrows gathered in frustration as John looked over his shoulder. The detective pointed incredulously at the screen.

"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!"

"People like the hat," the army doctor argued as he straightened.

"No, they don't," Sherlock argued further before immediately typing away on the laptop, " _What_ people?!" John chuckled and waggled his eyebrows at the detective's daughter before walking away to join Jeanine at his armchair.

"How's the hip, Mrs Hudson?" Molly asked kindly, fidgeting again with her dress.

"Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking," the older woman smiled kindly, raising her teacup to her lips.

Molly tapped on the side of her wine glass as she smiled, "I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems."

An awkward silence fell before Hem and Thea laughed slightly, but it seemed to do little for the poor mortician as her cheeks reddened.

"Oh god. Sorry."

Sherlock hadn't even looked up from the laptop when he chastised, "Don't make jokes, Molly."

Thea cleared her throat and smiled kindly at the woman, "Don't listen to him, he just gets curmudgeonly around the holidays. I thought it was funny. Dark humour is needed from time to time in our lines of work." The mortician looked back at her with some gratitude before stepping towards the door, away from the centre of attention. Thea looked up at Lestrade, asking, "We weren't expecting to see you, I thought you were headed to Dorset?"

He shook his head and grinned, "That's first thing in the morning, me and the wife. We're back together, it's all sorted."

She thought back to a previous deduction she'd made about Mrs Lestrade when they'd last met before giving a small, counterfeit smile, "Ah, right. I remember you saying that."

"She's sleeping with the PE teacher," came Sherlock's quick response, and his daughter threw a heavy glare in his direction.

" _Dad._ For god's sake!"

Lestrade's smile had become rather fixed, and when he glanced back at Thea, she mouthed a quick apology. It only seemed to confirm her father's statement, and his eyes glazed over as he quickly threw back the rest of his drink.

Molly tried to regain the conversation by turning to John, "I, uh, I heard you were off to your sister's, is that right?"

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze," he said pridefully, and before Sherlock could even retort with something, he threw a quick and fierce "Shut up" in the detective's direction. Given the state of the phone calls that had been exchanged between John and his sister recently, it was hardly difficult to deduce that she, in fact, had not stopped drinking. He was visiting simply to ensure she didn't drink herself to death over the holidays.

This seemed to be figured out fairly quickly by the other party guests.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," Sherlock started suddenly, standing and facing the room. "In fact, you're seeing him tonight."

Thea pulled away from Matthew and stepped over to her father, hissing into his ear, "Take the night off, Dad. I mean it." But he didn't even seem to hear her in his haze, his eyes were trained on the small box sitting atop the small pile of gifts.

Molly was glancing around the room nervously as she held her wine glass in both hands. "Erm, sorry, what?"

"Oh come on," the detective continued, walking to the tree and picking up the gift. Thea was stunned and could only watch on in horror as he said, "Surely you'd all seen this present - perfectly wrapped with a nice bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He turned to Molly and continued examining the present. "It's for someone special, then. The shade of red echoes her lipstick - either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper as looove on her mind." The woman continued to fidget and squirm under Sherlock's scrutiny. "The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing." He smiled almost smugly at John and Thea finally had enough.

She yanked the present from her father's hands and pulled the card from under the bow before heatedly commenting, "Read the fucking card next time, _before_ you assume you know everything there is to know." Then she held it back out to him with a fixed jaw and icy eyes. He was looking at the present, then he took the box and read the tag.

 _Dearest Sherlock_

 _From Molly xxx_

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed as he gazed at the card, his expression falling into one of mixed emotions, and Thea turned to Molly to put a comforting hand on her arm. She tried to steer the mortician towards the kitchen, but the woman turned back to the detective.

"You always say such horrible things." The words were full of tired sadness, and her fingers tapped gently against the wine glass in her hands. "Every time." Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she hastily gave a small painful laugh. "Always. _Always_." The disappointment filled the room and permeated their pores, and even the lights of the room seemed to dim with melancholy. The room was silent, and then suddenly Sherlock shifted as if to walk away. But he seemed to think better of it and turned instead to Molly.

"I am sorry." Thea glanced up at her father in surprise. "Forgive me." When he stepped closer to the mortician, she stepped away just enough to give them space but still interfere if the need arose. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

In all the time she'd known her father, Thea had never seen him be the slightest bit affectionate towards anyone but her grandmother and herself. So she found herself beyond shocked when she saw him lean in to Molly and peck her cheek with a kiss. Both Molly and Thea's jaws dropped, and as he pulled away, the moment was ruined by an orgasmic sigh.

Molly gasped in shock and quickly cried out, "No! That wasn't - I didn't!"

Thea sighed and folded her arms as Sherlock pulled out his mobile, "No, that was him."

"My god, really?!" Lestrade fumbled, befuddled.

Sherlock flashed his mobile at the DI and said quickly, "My phone."

Thea went back to standing next to Hem, and put her hand on the back of his chair. Her eyes found John's, "I've got a count of thirty-six, how many have you caught?"

He narrowed his eyes in thought. "This makes fifty-seven? I think?"

She pouted, "No fair, I've got my internship - I'm never around to hear them!"

Hem put his arm around his girlfriend's waist and frowned, "Sorry, what are we counting?"

"Those sighs - they're texts from a certain someone," she hinted, and he seemed to catch her meaning.

Sherlock, who had been looking at his phone, suddenly made for the fireplace. "Thrilling that you've both been counting." He moved a Christmas card slightly to the left to reveal a red box tied with a black string. "Excuse me."

He moved to go to his bedroom and Thea's eyebrows pulled together, "Dad? What's up?"

"I said excuse me."

John's jaw tightened as he called after the detective, "Do you every reply?" Then he and Thea shared a look. "Do you want to or should I?"

She shook her head and lightly touched between Hem's shoulderblades in apology. "No, I should." Then she looked at him with contrition and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek before pulling away again. By the time she had reached the bedroom door, Hem had folded right back into a rousing conversation with the rest of the room, and John had started up the playlist she'd selected. She knocked lightly on the door with her knuckle. "Papa? May I come in?" She didn't hear a response and cautiously turned the doorknob before opening it just enough to poke her head into the room. She saw her father sitting on the end of his carefully-made bed, looking into some far-off distance. "Papa, what was in the box?"

Without looking at her, Sherlock held up a camera-phone - Irene's phone. Thea felt her heart unexpectedly fall, and she set her teacup of mulled wine on his bedside table as she closed the door behind her. "Oh no." There was only one reason Irene would have sent the phone to her father, and it wasn't so he could peruse her many flattering self-portraits. She walked to him and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. He put the phone back in its box and grasped it carefully in both hands.

"I need to call Mycroft."

"Yes," his daughter agreed. When he didn't make the move to reach for his own mobile, she bit her lip. "Shall I do it?"

"I don't know why I feel this way," he said suddenly in a low, sad tone, "She was just a woman."

Thea almost laughed, "Papa, you were _attracted_ to each other. If the circumstances had been in any way different, you might have considered courting her."

"Never." He glanced in her direction before continuing his stare into the abyss. "I had my chance; I'm not inclined to ever have another romantic relationship. There's no need."

"It's not about needing it," she argued with a frown, "Feelings aren't something we can control. The rest of us, at least. You felt something human; if you don't want to, that's fine. But don't deny yourself the possibility of something simply because it's not a _necessity_."

He didn't respond, and she took that to be the end of their conversation on the matter. She pulled his head against her and ran her fingers through the mane of hair at his forehead.

"I don't need to be coddled, Thea."

"Just shut up and let me comfort you, for god's sake." Then she pulled her father's mobile from his pocket and speed-dialed her uncle. When he picked up, he sounded less than enthused.

"Oh dear Lord. We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?" he drawled condescendingly, "So long as Thea calls every year, we can consider our familial duties covered."

"That's quite cold, Uncle," she shot back, then turned her tone to serious, "But we have another problem. You're going to find Irene Adler tonight."

There was a pause as Mycroft seemed to think, "We already know where she is, dear. And as you and your father were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

She sighed and looked out the window as it began to snow quite heavily, "No, Uncle. I mean you're going to find her dead."

* * *

 _A/N: Hello again! So sorry this part took forever to come out, but I hope a long chapter makes up for it! I almost kept going but it was getting just a bit too long._

 _Life has been crazy, I hope you don't hate me too much! I promise we're getting to the really juicy bits where Thea becomes an even more brilliant character! Thank you so much for reading, love you all - favourite, follow, and review as you see fit :)_


	11. Part 11

_[A/N: This part contains minor smut.]_

* * *

 ** _Part Eleven._**

"I'm coming with."

"You're not."

"Like _hell_ I'm not! You're in no state to go alone."

"I'll be with your uncle; I won't be alone."

"The fact that you refer to him as _my_ uncle instead of _your_ brother speaks volumes of your relationship in and of itself. I'm coming with, and you can't stop me."

Hem, John, and Jeanine sat on the loveseat in the flat, each with a drink in their hand, as they watched Sherlock and Thea argue. She was standing in front of the door, arms folded across her chest as she stared down her father with intensity. He stood across from her, his coat over his left arm as he tied his signature blue scarf around his neck. It had been about half an hour before they'd emerged from Sherlock's bedroom, and Thea regretfully informed their party guests that there had been an incident and they would have to cut their time short.

"You're more than welcome to stay," she'd insisted, putting on a gracious smile even as she'd wrung her hands nervously, "You've all been so patient with us tonight – please feel free to chat and eat and drink to your heart's content! Mrs Hudson made such a lovely spread, I'd hate to see it go to waste."

The detective inspector and Molly had made their excuses and saw themselves out, though they hadn't escaped without Mrs H filling their arms with all sorts of food to take home. She was currently back in her flat, getting containers from her cabinets to store the rest of the leftover food.

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before turning to Hem. "Matthew, my daughter will not be coming with me. Please ensure she does not follow me. Or if you must leave the flat, please have her back by tomorrow morning. We'll be leaving for the countryside at noon so we can spend Christmas evening with her grandparents."

Hem nodded and stood, setting his glass on the table in front of him, as Thea began to protest, but Sherlock pushed past her and started down the stairs. She turned to follow, but Hem grabbed her waist and pulled her close to him, her back against his chest. "Leave him, dove. He has to do this on his own."

She pouted, feeling an overwhelming sadness come over her that was intensified in a blue haze by the alcohol she'd consumed earlier. "He always leaves. Why does he always leave?"

Hem unwrapped himself from her and slipped her coat from her shoulders. He hung it up on the back of the door as he closed it. "He doesn't mean to hurt you, you know." He steered her to John's armchair in front of the fire and kneeled before her. "Can I make you a cuppa?"

She nodded, kicking off her shoes and curling herself up. "Please."

Hem patted her knee comfortingly as he stood, giving John a concerned glance before proceeding to the kitchen. The army doctor sighed and walked to the young woman, sitting on the edge of her father's armchair and looking at her face.

"Tee, what's happened?"

She bit her lip. "Irene gifted him her mobile."

The doctor looked surprised before his brows furrowed, "And that means…?"

"She's dead, Watson."

A heavy silence settled over the room; Hem had glanced up at her from where he was at the stove and John swallowed before asking, "How can you be sure?"

"I'm sure. That mobile was her life." She went quiet before making a hissing noise between her teeth. "God, I was _so close_ to figuring out her endgame. There was more to her, I'm sure of it. There were too many coincidences, too many patterns, too many loose ends." Thea waved her hand around her head, as if trying to clear something from the air. John observed the faraway look in her eyes, startled to see Sherlock hiding in the depths of them. "It's all so tangled together."

Hem emerged and pushed a cup of tea into her hands. "You need some sobering up, is all."

Her eyes found him and softened at the corners. "I've had a bit too much to drink, haven't I?" She shook her head slightly and closed her eyes as she pressed one hand to her temple. "I don't normally drink excessively. Addiction in the family and all."

The army doctor pulled the girl's thin wrist toward him and looked over her veins. "You've lost a lot of weight in the past year, I'm sure that didn't help with the drinking. It could be beneficial to take a break from working cases and focus more on other facets of your life."

But Thea frowned and her eyes opened to find him as she hastily pulled her hand away. "I'm not _sick_. I don't need to take a break." Her cheeks flushed, and she turned her gaze to the fire beside her.

Hem cleared his throat and John exchanged thoughts with him, seeming to understand the message. He gave a forced smile at the young woman and stood to join Jeanine again as Hem sat where he'd just been. He stood much taller than the doctor, so when he perched on the armchair, his knees practically brushed against Thea's toes, curled against the edge of the softer, worn chair as her legs touched her chest. He pulled the blanket from the armrest of her chair and threw it over her lap when he saw her begin to shiver. "Thea," he said softly.

Her eyes found him again, and he found his breath catching in his throat at the sight of her. He had always found her intrinsically beautiful, but her gaze now was nothing short of striking with the firelight catching every delicate facet of her features. But even as he studied her, he realised how right the army doctor had been. She was a shadow of her former self, if that could even be possible. Hem knew she had always had trouble sleeping if there were many things taking up her headspace, such as a case or a project at her internship, but it had gotten worse over the months he'd had the pleasure of knowing her. She would force herself to stay awake for three nights at a time before collapsing onto a bed or sofa and sleeping for up to twelve hours. She had hardly eaten that night, and he couldn't remember the last time she'd stopped to eat a full meal. It couldn't help that her father was rubbish at keeping the kitchen stocked, but she had been so good at taking care of herself before that Hem had never stopped to consider that she had suddenly forgotten how to, or that she simply didn't care to anymore.

"You know that I love you very deeply," he started, twisting his hands together, "but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned about your health." Her body language shifted infinitesimally, and he noted it with careful eyes. Switching tactic, he brightened suddenly, "Let's take a vacation, you and me."

Thea cocked an eyebrow at him even as her mouth twisted into a small smile, "Are you serious?"

"I've got a bunch of vacation days that I've saved up for something special." He shrugged and grinned at her, "Name a place. We'll go after New Year's."

A tiny light ignited behind Thea's eyes, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I've always wanted to see Paris. Nan says it's perfectly dreamy, and it won't be crowded with tourists in winter."

"Paris it is," he smiled adoringly at her and leaned over to press a long kiss to her forehead. "Now drink your cuppa, it's getting cold. Do you want to stay here tonight? I've got all my things in boxes at the moment, so my room in the flat is a bit unfit for company."

She gazed at him and ran her fingers along his jaw, cradling his cheek. "Here's fine. I'd forgotten you found a new flat for yourself. When can I see it? The suspense is killing me."

He waggled his eyebrows at her mischievously. "How about when I carry you across the threshold, _ma lionne_?"

"Is that a marriage proposal, Mr Hemingway?" Thea tried to remain some semblance of calm as she sipped at her tea, but the idea of being bonded to Matthew Hemingway for the remainder of her life held some gravitas over everything else parading in her mind. Her stomach somersaulted with excitement, despite herself.

"When I propose to you, Ms Holmes, you will know." He winked at her before standing and heading to the kitchen, squeezing her shoulder as he passed her. "I'm going to finish cleaning up, let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," Thea said sincerely over her shoulder before staring again into the depths of the fireplace. She could feel her thoughts untangling, one by one, as she sobered slowly.

Irene Adler was dead – and a part of Thea was upset that their game had never played out to its full extent. She had been riveted by The Woman, albeit begrudgingly due to her suspicions of Irene's potentially criminal connections, and the loss of a compellingly brilliant woman was cause for mourning in any case. She felt she'd had so much to learn from Irene, both in an intellectual and wicked sense.

Thea cocked her head as a fresh thought bloomed in her mind, and she set her teacup aside. The Woman had known she was going to die. How long had she suspected that her time on this earthly plane was ticking to its final seconds? The mobile hadn't been on the mantle forever; Thea and John had started decorating the room a couple of days prior to the Christmas party and there had been a distinct lack of a small red box. She closed her eyes and ruminated the thought, imagining it as a ball that she tossed back and forth between her hands. If she'd known she were going to die, why Sherlock? Why leave her lifeline in the hands of the man with whom she deliberately played keep-away?

 _Sentiment,_ Thea mused as her father's voice slipped through her ears like a whisper in the wind. Irene liked the consulting detective, though in what context was elusive to Thea. Certainly, it was a clear mutual attraction, but emotions were actively avoided by both parties. It would be nearly impossible to decipher if there were any real feelings involved.

"Did you say something?" Hem asked from Thea's right, and she opened her eyes to see him kneeling beside the armchair, his arm draped across the back. Jeanine and John had moved to the kitchen, and Mrs Hudson was chattering animatedly with them as they continued to drink and pick at the remaining food.

Thea glanced around the room with furrowed brows.

"Sorry, what?"

"You muttered something, and you were making gestures with your hands. John had said it was something Sherlock did when he was thinking, and that you'd recently started doing it, too." Hem pressed his cheek into his hand and gazed at her. "Penny for your thoughts?"

She shook her head and smiled. "I must have dived too deeply into my contemplations. I was pondering the mystery of Irene Adler." She stretched and uncurled her legs from beneath her, letting the tension drip from her toes. "How long's it been?"

"Almost an hour," Hem answered with a glance at his watch.

"Papa will be on his way home soon." Thea stood and grabbed her mobile from the table nearby, quickly calling her uncle. He picked up on the first ring.

"I was about to call you," he drawled, and Thea could picture the sour expression on his face. "It was her."

She let out a small breath and rubbed the back of her neck. "Did you offer him a cig?"

"Yes."

"Did he take it?" Her uncle didn't respond, and she muttered, "Shit." She turned to the others in the kitchen and covered the mouthpiece of her phone. "Code Yellow."

The landlady and John's faces dropped, and Mrs Hudson set aside her cup of mulled wine before quickly bustling toward Sherlock's bedroom and giving militant orders. "I've got his room; you check the cupboards. Thea'll cover the study." The army doctor nodded and made excuses to a bewildered Jeanine before starting to rummage through the contents of the kitchen.

Thea nodded and turned back to face Hem, reaching for his hand and rubbing the back of it with her thumb when he willingly gave it. His forehead was creased with worry. "How bad was it?"

"She was unrecognizable." In the background, there was the click of his shoes on the linoleum of the hospital as he walked. "Whoever finally got to her made sure she would never be able to take photographs again."

But Thea frowned and closed her eyes as her previous thoughts came back to mind. "You mean you couldn't identify her from her face?"

"Correct. He confirmed from…. other aspects of her body."

Thea shook her head. "No… Isn't this all a bit convenient? Not being able to identify her face – something feels wrong here."

"Thea," Mycroft said gently, "I have confirmation on my side of things, as well."

The knot in her stomach didn't abate even at her uncle's reassurances, but she nodded anyway. "Right. Of course, you would've had. I'm afraid I had a bit too much to drink earlier, it's made me silly in the head. I'll take care of him tonight, don't worry."

"And John, as well."

"Uncle, he's got plans – " she started to protest, but Mycroft interrupted her without delay.

"He stays with the three of you tonight. Tell Mr Hemingway that he'd better stay as well, though I've no doubt that was already in the works." Then her uncle's tone changed, and he said quietly, "I wish I'd been more…." Then he stopped and cleared his throat. "He needs you, Thea, more than he realizes. Let me know if things go awry."

"I will, Uncle. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Thea."

She hung up the call and set the phone back on the table, running her hands over her unruly, stray hairs and exhaling deeply. Hem took her hands in his and squeezed them.

"What do we have to do?" he asked softly, and she bit her lip.

"We'll need to practically overturn the room – it's a danger night for my dad. I don't think he has anything in the flat, but if he does, I'll be able to find it."

"And by anything you mean…"

"Drugs," she responded bluntly, struggling to meet Hem's eyes as the words tumbled from her lips. "I don't keep my stash here, and it's been months since I last used, so I won't need to look upstairs. But if he's keeping anything secretly, it'll be down here."

Hem tipped her chin up to him and nodded. It was the kind of gesture that sealed his fate as her keeper of secrets, her confidante in the most trying of times. "Then we'll look. Where do we start?"

* * *

They were sitting on the loveseat, Thea's legs draped over Hem's lap as she played with the hair curled around his ear and listened to him talk softly of literature, when Sherlock came through the doorway. John was sat in his armchair with a book in hand, slightly forlorn after a terse argument – most likely a breakup – with Jeanine after he explained he couldn't go out with her that evening. But he didn't portray this mix of emotions as he turned to look up at the consulting detective, standing suspect in the doorway. His eyes were wandering over the room, taking in the miniscule details of their search. Thea had known it would be pointless to try and hide the evidence that they had gone through the flat with the intention of finding any secrets he'd stashed away for safekeeping.

"Papa," she called softly, and he glanced at her before continuing to eye the flat. "Are you okay?" He didn't answer, and she found it hard to read his features and body language. She tried to make her tone airy and mentioned, "I fixed your sock index, if that's what you're worried about."

Even the smallest jest seemed to help, and he relaxed somewhat into the atmosphere of the room. "Good." And without another word, he slipped down the hallway and shut the door to his bedroom. Thea exhaled and leaned into Hem with a tired smile.

"The danger has passed." Then she stood and started to undo the pins and bobbies from her hair as she turned to John. "We're going to head up, Watson. How long will you be up, do you think?"

The army doctor sighed and held up his book with a grimace. "I'll read a couple more chapters and turn in, I think. Long enough to ensure he's fine."

She nodded and squeezed his shoulder as she passed him, letting her hair fall around her face. Then Hem placed his hand on her back and they started for her bedroom. It had changed slightly in the two years they'd lived in the flat; she'd begun decluttering when she'd graduated school and it had become a minimalist haven for her in colours of white and light green, though the walls were still stacked with enough books to fill a school library. Hem sat on the edge of her bed and pulled her close to him after she'd set her hair things on her table to put away later and locked her bedroom door.

"Y'know," he started, tracing his thumb over her cheek and lips, her hands folded over his beating heart, "I sometimes wonder if you spend too much time taking care of _others_ and not enough time taking care of _yourself_."

Thea's lips upturned in a half-smile and she nipped at his thumb playfully, "I've heard that a lot, actually. What can I say? I have a bleeding heart."

"Well tonight," he said suddenly, standing and picking her up so they had switched places, with her sitting on her bed and him kneeling between her knees, "I'm going to take care of you."

Her breath hitched when his lips touched hers, and his hands gently pulled down the black stockings she'd worn under her Christmas dress. Under normal circumstances, she would eagerly be ripping his clothes from his body, desperate for them to become one, but tonight…

Tonight, she'd savour his lingering touch.

When his fingers found her centre, she gasped lightly against his mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist to keep him anchored to her. He was gentle at first, but when she took his bottom lip between her teeth, he growled deep in his chest and began moving rhythmically, circling her sensitive parts with his thumb. She longed to return the favor, but when she reached for his belt, he pulled away slightly and smiled with his forehead against hers.

"Let me take care of you, Thea," he murmured in a low voice. He pushed her back against the bed and slipped her dress just above her hips. He smiled sensually at her once more before he pressed feather-light kisses up her thighs. Thea closed her eyes and let herself _feel_ for once, taking in the smallest shivers up her spine, the growing coil deep within her that tightened with each touch, each kiss.

And when she was sent over the edge, sheets tight in her fist in ecstasy, the world erupted into colourful supernovas, and _she_ was at the centre of the universe.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello again to you, lovelies! I'm so sorry for my absence; I've been battling my mental illnesses for about a year now and the last eight to ten months have been absolutely brutal. But I promise you that I will finish this story - I've already got the ideas brewing, I've just got to get serious and **write**!_

 _I hope you all loved this part - I certainly loved writing it. I've been wanting to dive more into Hem's character and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Much more of him and Thea coming. I saw Scandal in Belgravia as an opportunity to explore the topic of love - the love between Sherlock and Irene and the love between Thea and Matthew._

 _As always, read, review, and favourite/follow for future updates! Love you all!_


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